The House on the Strand

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE MORTUARY WAS a smallish, red-brick building not far from Fowey station. There was nobody there when we arrived: the second patrol car was still on its way. When I got out of the car the Inspector looked at me a moment, and then he said, "Mr. Young, there may be some delay. I'd like to offer you a cup of coffee and a sandwich at the caf+® just up the road."

"Thank you," I said, "but I'm all right."

"I can't insist," he continued, "but it really would be wise. You'll feel the better for it."

I gave in, and allowed him to lead me along to the caf+®, and we each had some coffee, and I had a ham sandwich too. As we sat there I thought of the times in the past, as undergraduates, when Magnus and I had travelled down by train to Par to stay with his parents at Kilmarth. The rattle in the darkness and the echo of sound in the tunnel, and suddenly that welcome emergence into the light, with green fields on either side. Magnus must have made that journey every school holiday as a boy. Now he had met his death by the entrance to that same tunnel. It would make sense to no one. Not to the police, or to his many friends, or to anyone but myself. I should be asked why a man of his intelligence had wandered close to a railway-line on a summer's evening at dusk, and I should have to say that I did not know. I did know. Magnus was walking in a time when no railway-line existed. He was walking in an age when the hillside was rough pasture, even scrub. There was no gaping tunnel mouth yawning from the hillside in that other world, no metal lines, no track, only the bare grassland, and perhaps a man astride a pony, leading him on…

"Yes?" I said. The Inspector was asking me if Professor Lane had any relatives.

"I'm sorry," I said, "I didn't hear what you said. No, Commander and Mrs. Lane have been dead for a number of years, and there were no other children. I've never heard him mention cousins or anyone." There must be a lawyer somewhere who dealt with his affairs, a bank which managed his finances: now I came to think of it I did not even know his secretary's name. Our relationship, binding, intimate, did not concern itself with day-to-day matters, with ordinary concerns. There must be someone other than myself who would know about all this. Presently the constable came to tell the Inspector that the second patrol car had arrived, and the ambulance too, and we walked back to the mortuary. The constable murmured something which I did not hear, and the Inspector turned to me.

"Doctor Powell from Fowey happened to be at Tywardreath police station when the message came through from our patrol," he said, "and he agreed to make a preliminary examination of the body. Then it will be up to the Coroner's pathologist to conduct the post mortem."

"Yes," I said. Post mortem.. inquest… the whole paraphernalia of the law.

I went into the mortuary. The first person I saw was the doctor I had met at the lay-by, who had watched me recovering from my attack of vertigo over ten days ago. I saw the instant recognition in his eyes, but he did not let on when the Inspector introduced us.

"I'm sorry about this," he said, and then, abruptly, "If you haven't seen anyone before who's been badly smashed up in an accident, let alone a friend, it's not a pleasant sight. This man has had a great gash on the head."

He took me to the stretcher lying on the long table. It was Magnus, but he looked different — smaller, somehow. There was a sort of cavity caked with blood above his right eye. There was dried blood on his jacket, which was torn, and a tear in one of his trouser legs.

"Yes," I said, "yes, that is Professor Lane."

I turned away, because Magnus himself wasn't there. He was still walking in the fields above the Treesmill valley, or looking about him, in great wonder, in some other undiscovered world.

"If it's any consolation to you," said the doctor, "he couldn't have lived very long after receiving a blow like that. God knows how he managed to crawl the few yards to the hut — he wouldn't have been conscious of his movements, he would have died literally a few moments afterwards." Nothing was a consolation, but I thanked him all the same. "You mean", I said, "he would not have lain there, wondering why nobody came?"

"No," he answered, "definitely not. But I'm sure the Inspector will let you have the full details, as soon as we know the extent of the injuries."

There was a walking-stick lying at the end of the table. The sergeant pointed it out to the Inspector. "The stick was lying half-way down the embankment, sir," he said, "a short distance from the hut. The Inspector looked enquiringly at me, and I nodded. Yes," I said, "it's one of many he had. His father collected walking-sticks; there are about a dozen in his flat in London."

"I think the best thing to do now is for us to run you straight back to Kilmarth, Mr. Young," said the Inspector. "You'll be kept fully informed, of course. You realise that you will be required to give evidence at the inquest."

"Yes," I said. I wondered what would happen to Magnus's body after the post mortem. I wondered if it was going to lie there through the weekend. Not that it mattered. Not that anything mattered. As the Inspector shook hands he said that they would probably come out on Monday and ask me a few more questions, in case I could add to my original statement. "You see, Mr. Young," he explained, "there might be a question of amnesia, or even suicide."

"Amnesia," I repeated. "That's loss of memory, isn't it? Most unlikely. And suicide, definitely no. The Professor was the last man in the world to do such a thing, and he had no cause. He was looking forward to the weekend, and was in very good spirits when I spoke to him on the telephone."

"Quite so," said the Inspector. "Well, that's just the sort of statement the Coroner will want to have from you."

The constable dropped me at the house, and I walked very slowly through the garden and up the steps. I poured out the equivalent of a triple whisky, and flung myself on the divan bed in the dressing-room. I must have passed out shortly afterwards, for when I woke up it was late afternoon or early evening, and Vita was sitting on the chair near by with a book in her hands, the last of the sun coming through the western window that gave on to the patio.

"What's the time?" I asked.

"About half-after six," she said, and came and sat on the bed beside me.

"I thought it wisest to let you lie, she went on. The doctor who saw you at the mortuary telephoned during the afternoon, and asked if you were all right, and I told him you were sleeping. He said to let you sleep as long as possible, it was the best thing that could happen." She put her hand in mine and it was comforting, like being a child again.

"What did you do with the boys?" I asked. "The house seems very quiet."

"Mrs. Collins was wonderful," she said. "She took them down to Polkerris to spend the day with her. Her husband was going to take them fishing after lunch and bring them back about Seven. They'll be home any moment now."

I was silent a moment, and then I said, "This mustn't spoil their holiday, Magnus would have hated that."

"Don't bother about them or me," she said. "We can take care of ourselves. What worries me is the shock it's been for you."

I was thankful she did not pursue the subject, go over the whole business again — why it had happened, what Magnus had been doing, why he did not notice the approaching train, why the driver had not seen him; it would have led us nowhere.

"I ought to get on the telephone," I said. "The people at the University should be told."

"The nice Inspector is taking care of all of that," she said. "He came back again, quite soon after you must have gone upstairs. He asked to see Magnus's suitcase. I told him you'd unpacked it last night and hadn't found anything. He didn't either. He left the clothes hanging in the closet."

I remembered the bottle in my own suitcase, and the papers about Bodrugan. "What else did he want?"

"Nothing. Just said to leave everything to them, and he'd be in touch with you on Monday."

I put out my arms and pulled her down to me. "Thanks for everything, darling, I said. You're a great comfort. I can't really think straight yet."

"Don't try," she whispered. "I wish there was more I could say, or do."

We heard the boys talking together in their room. They must have come in by the back entrance. "I'll go to them," said Vita, "they'll want some supper. Would you like me to bring yours up here?"

"No, I'll come down. I'll have to face them some time." I went on lying there awhile, watching the last of the sun filtering through the trees. Then I had a bath and changed. Despite the shock and the turmoil of the day my bloodshot eye was back to normal. The trouble may have been coincidental, nothing to do with the drug. In any event it was something, now, that I should never know. Vita was giving the boys their supper in the kitchen.

I could hear what they were saying as I hovered in the hall, bracing myself before I went in.

"Well, I bet you anything you like it turns out to be foul play." Teddy's rather high-pitched, nasal voice came clearly through the open kitchen door. "It stands to reason the Professor had some secret Scientific information on him, probably to do with germ warfare, and he'd arranged to meet someone near that tunnel, and the man he met was a spy and knocked him on the head. The police down here won't think of that, and they'll have to bring in the Secret Service."

"Don't be idiotic, Teddy," said Vita sharply. "That's just the sort of frightful way rumours spread. It would upset Dick terribly to hear you say things like that. I hope you didn't suggest such a thing to Mr. Collins."

"Mr. Collins thought of it first," chimed in Micky. "He said you never knew what scientists were up to these days, and the Professor might have been looking for a site for a hush-hush research station up the Treesmill valley."

This conversation had the instant effect of pulling me together. I thought how Magnus would have loved it, played up to it, too, encouraged every exaggeration. I coughed loudly and went towards the kitchen, hearing Vita say Ssh… as I passed through the door. The boys looked up, their small faces taking on the expression of shy discomfort that children wear when suddenly confronted with what they fear to be an adult plunged in grief.

"Hullo," I said. "Had a good day?"

"Not bad," mumbled Teddy, turning red. "We went fishing."

"Catch anything?"

"A few whiting. Mom's cooking them now."

"Well, if you've any to spare, I'll stand in the queue, I had a cup of coffee and a sandwich in Fowey, and that's been my lot for the day." They must have expected me to stand with bowed head and shaking shoulders, for they cheered visibly when I attacked a large wasp on the window with the fly-swatter, saying "Got him!" with enormous relish as I squashed it flat. Later, when we were eating, I said to them, "I may be a bit tied up next week because they'll have to hold an inquest on Magnus, and there'll be various things to attend to, but I'll see to it that you go out with Tom in one of his boats from Fowey, engine or sailing, whichever you like best."

"Oh, thanks awfully," said Teddy, and Micky, realising that the subject of Magnus was no longer taboo, paused, his mouth full of whiting, and enquired brightly, "Will the Professor's life story be on TV tonight?"

"I shouldn't think so," I replied. "It's not as if he were a pop-singer or a politician."

"Bad luck," he said. "Still, we'd better watch just in case."

There was nothing, much to the disappointment of both boys, and secretly, I suspected, of Vita too, but to my own considerable relief. I knew the next few days would bring more than enough in the way of publicity, once the press got hold of the story, and so it proved. The telephone started ringing first thing the following morning, although it was Sunday, and either Vita or I spent most of the day answering it. Finally we left it off the hook and installed ourselves on the patio, where reporters, if they rang the front-door bell, would never find us. The next morning she took the boys into Par to do some shopping, leaving me to my mail, which I had not opened. The few letters I had were nothing to do with the disaster. Then I picked up the last of the small pile and saw, with a queer stab of the heart, that it was addressed to me in pencil, bore an Exeter postmark, and was in Magnus's handwriting. I tore it open.

'Dear Dick,' I read, 'I'm writing this in the train, and it will probably be illegible. If I find a post-box handy on Exeter station I'll drop it in. There is probably no need to write at all, and by the time you receive it on Saturday morning we shall have had, I trust, an uproarious evening together with many more to come, but I write as a safety-measure, in case I pass out in the carriage from sheer exuberance of spirits. My findings to date are pretty conclusive that we are on to something of prime importance regarding the brain. Briefly, and in layman's language, the chemistry within the brain cells concerned with memory, everything we have done from infancy onwards, is reproducible, returnable, for want of a better term, in these same cells, the exact contents of which depends upon our hereditary make-up, the legacy of parents, grandparents, remoter ancestors back to primeval times. The fact that I am a genius and you are a lay-about depends solely upon the messages transmitted to us from these cells and then distributed through the various other cells and throughout our body, but, our various characteristics apart, the particular cells I have been working upon — which I will call the memory-boxstore — not only our own memories but habits of the earlier brain pattern we inherit. These habits, if released to consciousness, would enable us to see, hear, become cognoscent of things that happened in the past, not because any particular ancestor witnessed any particular scene, but because with the use of a medium — in this case a drug — the inherited, older brain pattern takes over and becomes dominant. The implications from a historian's point of view don't concern me, but, biologically, the potential uses of the hitherto untapped ancestral brain are of enormous interest, and open immeasurable possibilities.

'As to the drug itself, yes, it's dangerous, and could be lethal if taken to excess, and should it fall into the hands of the unscrupulous it might bring even more havoc upon our already troubled world. So, dear boy, if anything happens to me, destroy what remains in Bluebeard's chamber. My staff — who, however, know nothing of the implications of my discovery, for I have been working on this on my own — have similar instructions here in London, and can be trusted implicitly. As to yourself, if I don't see you again, forget the whole business. If we meet this evening as arranged, and take a walk and perhaps a trip together, as I hope we shall, I intend to have a close look, if I have the luck, at the beautiful Isolda, who, from the evidence in the document at the top of my suitcase, appears to have lost her lover just as you said, and must be in dire need of consolation. Whether Roger Kylmerth can supply it we may discover at the same time. No time to say any more, we are drawing into Exeter.

A bient+¦t, in this world, or the other, or hereafter.

Magnus.'

If we had not gone sailing on the Friday I should have found the telephone message about the earlier train in time… If I had made straight for the Gratten after leaving Saint Austell station, instead of going home… Too many ifs, and none of them working out. Even this letter, coming now like a message from the dead, should have reached me on Saturday morning instead of today, Monday. Not that it would have done any good. Nor did it say anything about Magnus's real intentions. Even then, as he posted it, he may not have made up his mind. The letter was a safety-measure, as he said, in case anything went wrong. I read it through again, once, twice, then put my lighter to it and watched it burn.

I went down to the basement and through the old kitchen to the lab. I had not entered it since early Wednesday morning, after returning from the Gratten, when Bill had come downstairs and found me making tea in the kitchen. The rows of jars and bottles, the monkey's head, the embryo kittens and the fungus plants held no menace for me now, nor had they done so since the first experiment. Now, with their magician gone, never to return, they had a wasted, almost a forlorn appearance, like puppets and props from a conjurer's bag of tricks. No ebony wand would bring these things to life, no cunning hand extract the juices, pick the bones and set them fermenting in some bubbling cauldron brew.

I took the jars which held various liquids and poured the contents down the sink. Then I washed the jars out and put them back on the shelf. They could have been used for preserving fruit or jam, for all anybody would ever know; there were no distinctive marks upon them — only labels which I stripped off and pocketed. Then I fetched an old sack which I remembered seeing in the boiler-house, and set about unscrewing the remaining jars and bottles that contained the embryos and the monkey's head. I put them all in the sack, having first poured down the sink the liquid that had preserved them, taking care that none of it touched my hands. I did the same with the various fungi, putting them also in the sack. Only two small bottles remained, bottle A, containing the remains of the drug I had been using myself to date, and bottle C, untouched. Bottle B I had sent to Magnus, and it was lying empty in my suitcase upstairs. I did not pour the contents of either down the sink. I put them in my pocket. Then I went to the door and listened. Mrs. Collins was moving about between the kitchen and the pantry — I could hear her radio going.

I swung the sack over my shoulder and locked the door of the lab. Then I went out through the back door and climbed up to the kitchen garden behind the stable block, and into the wood at the top of the grounds. I went to where the undergrowth was thickest, straggling laurels, rhododendrons that had not bloomed for years, broken branches of dead trees, brambles, nettles, the fallen leaves of successive autumn gales, and I took one of the dead branches and scraped a pit in the wet, dank earth and emptied the sack into it, smashing the monkey's head with a jagged stone so that it no longer bore any resemblance to a living thing, only fragments, only jelly, and the embryos slithered amongst the fragments, unrecognisable, like the stringy entrails flung to a seagull when a fish is gutted. I covered them, and the sack, with the rotting leaves of years, and the brown earth, and a heap of nettles, and the sentence came into my mind, 'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust', and in a sense it was as if I were burying Magnus and his work as well. I went back into the house, through the basement, and up the little side-stairway to the front, thus avoiding Mrs. Collins, but she must have heard me entering the hall, for she called, "Is that you, Mr. Young?"

"Yes," I said.

"I looked for you everywhere — I couldn't find you. The Inspector from Liskeard was on the telephone."

"I was in the garden," I told her. "I'll ring him back. I went upstairs to the dressing-room, and put bottles A and C in my suitcase along with the empty bottle B, locked it once again, put the key on my ring, washed, and went downstairs to the library. Then I put a call through to the police-station at Saint Austell.

"I'm sorry, Inspector," I said, when they got him on the line. "I was in the garden when you telephoned."

"That's all right, Mr. Young," he said. "I thought you would like to know the news to date. Well, we've made some headway. It was a goods-train that caused the accident, that seems to be clearly established. It passed through Treverran tunnel, going up the line, at approximately ten minutes to ten. The driver saw no one near the line as he approached the tunnel, but these goods trains are sometimes of considerable length, and this one carried no guard in the rear, so that once the engine had entered the tunnel there would be no one to observe whether anybody came on to the line and was struck by one of the passing wagons."

"No," I said, "no, I appreciate that. And you think this is what happened?"

"Well, Mr. Young, everything points to it. It would seem as though Professor Lane must have continued up the lane past Trenadlyn Farm, but before he got to the main road he turned off into a field they call Higher Gum, well above Treverran, and crossed it in a diagonal direction towards the railway. It is possible, by climbing through the wire and scrambling up a bank, to get on to the line, but anyone doing so could not have failed to notice the goods train. It was dark, of course, but there is a signal just outside the tunnel, and a goods train is far from silent, quite apart from the warning hoot of the diesel engine, which is routine procedure before entering the tunnel." Yes, but six centuries ago there were no signals, no wire, no lines, no warning hoots sounding on the air…

"You mean", I said, "that anyone would have to be blind or stone-deaf not to be aware of a train coming up that valley, even when it is some distance off?"

"Well yes, Mr. Young. Of course, it is possible to stand at the side of the line as the train goes by — there is plenty of room on either side of the double tracks — and it would seem that this was what Professor Lane did. We have found marks on the ground where he slipped, and up the bank where he dragged himself to the hut."

I thought a moment, and then I said, "Inspector, would it be possible for me to go and see the exact spot myself?"

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Young, it was what I was going to suggest, but I was not sure how you would feel about it. It could be helpful, not only to you but to us."

"Then I'm ready whenever you are."

"Shall we say eleven-thirty outside the police station at Tywardreath?"

It was already eleven. I was backing my car out of the garage when Vita came down the drive in the Buick with the boys. They scrambled out, clutching baskets filled with provisions.

"Where are you going?" asked Vita.

"The Inspector wants me to see the spot near the tunnel where they found Magnus," I told her. "They think they know what did it — a goods train that passed there around ten minutes to ten. The driver would already have been in the tunnel when Magnus walked, or slipped, into one of the rear wagons."

"Run along," said Vita sharply to both boys, who were hovering. "Take those things up to Mrs. Collins," and when they were out of earshot, "But why should Magnus have been on the line? It makes no sense at all. You know what people are going to say? I heard it in one of the shops, and I felt dreadful… That it must have been suicide."

"Complete and utter drivel," I said.

"Well, I know… But when anyone is well known, and there is a disaster, there's always such talk. And scientists are supposed to be peculiar anyway, border-line cases."

"So are we all," I said, "ex-publishers, policemen, the lot. Don't wait lunch — I don't know when I'll be back."

The Inspector took me to the site he had described over the telephone on the lane above Treverran farm. On the way he told me that they had got in touch with the senior man on Magnus's staff who had been unable to throw any light on the disaster.

"He was very upset, naturally," the Inspector went on. "He knew Professor Lane was intending to spend the weekend with you, and was looking forward to it. He concurred with you in stating that the Professor was in perfect health and excellent spirits. Incidentally, he did not seem to be aware of his interest in historical sites, but agreed that it could undoubtedly be a private hobby. We took the Treesmill road out of Tywardreath and turned right at the Stonybridge lane, past Trenadlyn and Treverran, and drew up near the top of the lane, parking beside a gate leading into a field.

"What is difficult to understand", observed the Inspector, "is why, if Treverran Farm was the place that interested Professor Lane, he did not call there, instead of walking across these fields some distance above the farm."

I threw a quick glance around me. Treverran was to the left, above the valley but in a dip, with the railway running below it; and beyond the railway line itself the land sloped down again.

Centuries ago the contour of the land would have been the same, but a broad stream would have run through the valley below Treverran Farm, more than a stream, a river, which in high autumn spate would flood the low-lying ground before it entered the waters of Treesmill creek.

"Is there a stream there still?" I asked, pointing to the valley base.

"Still?" repeated the Inspector, puzzled. "There is a ditch at the bottom of the hill, below the railway — you might call it a stream, rather sluggish — and the ground is marshy.

We walked down the field. The railway was already in sight, and just to the right of us was the ominous tunnel-mouth.

"There might have been a road here once," I sald, "descending to the valley, and a ford across the stream to the other side."

"Possibly, the Inspector said. Not much sign of one now, though."

Magnus wanted to ford the stream. Magnus was following someone on horseback who was going to ford the stream. Therefore he moved swiftly. And it was not a summer's evening at dusk on a clear night: it was autumn, and the wind was blowing, and the rain was coming in gusts across the hills…

We descended the field to the railway embankment, close to the tunnel. A short distance to the left there was an archway under the line, forming a passage between one field and another. A number of cattle were standing here, under the arch, seeking shelter from the flies.

"You see, said the Inspector, there's no need for the farmer or anyone to cross the line to get to the opposite field. They can go through the passage-way there, where those cattle are standing."

"Yes," I said, "but the Professor might not have noticed it, if he was walking higher up the field. It would be more direct to cross the line itself."

"What, climb the embankment, get through the wire, and scramble down the bank on to the line?" he said. "And in the darkness too? I shouldn't care to try it myself."

In point of fact, it was what we did right then, in broad daylight. He led the way, I followed, and once over the wire he pointed to the disused hut, covered with ivy, a few yards higher up the embankment, just above the line.

"The undergrowth is beaten down because we were here yesterday," he told me, "but Professor Lane's tracks were plain enough, where he dragged himself clear of the line and up to the hut; semi-conscious as he must have been, it showed almost superhuman strength and tremendous courage."

Which world had surrounded Magnus, the present or the past? Had the goods train rattled towards the tunnel unobserved, as he scrambled down the bank on to the line? With the engine already in the tunnel did he make to cross the line, which in his vision was grass-meadow still, sloping down to the stream below, and so was struck by the swinging wagon? In either world, it was the coup de grace. He could not have known what hit him. The instinct for survival made him crawl towards the hut, and then, please God, merciful oblivion, no sudden loneliness, no knowledge of imminent death.

We stood there, staring into the empty hut, and the Inspector showed me the spot on the earthen floor where Magnus had died. The place was impersonal, without atmosphere, like some forgotten toolshed with the gardener long gone. "It hasn't been used for years," he said. "The gangs working on the line used to brew tea here, and eat their pasties. They use the other hut lower down now, and that not often."

We turned away, retracing our footsteps along the overgrown bank to the strands of sagging wire through which we had climbed. I looked across to the opposite hills, some of them thickly wooded. There was a farm to the left, with a smaller building above it, and away to the north another cluster of buildings. I asked their names. The farm was Colwith, and the smaller building had been a schoolhouse once. The third, almost out of sight, was another farm, Strickstenton.

"We're on the borders of three parishes here," the Inspector said, "Tywardreath, Saint Sampsons or Golant, and Lanlivery. Mr. Kendall of Pelyn is a big landowner hereabouts. Now that's a fine old manor house for you, Pelyn, just down the main road on the way to Lostwithiel. Been in the family for centuries."

"How many centuries?"

"Well, Mr. Young, I'm no expert. Four, maybe?"

Pelyn could not turn itself into Tregest. None of the names fitted Tregest. Somewhere here, though, within walking distance, Magnus had been following Roger to Oliver Carminowe's dwelling, whether it was manor-house or farm.

"Inspector," I said, "even now, despite all you've shown me, I believe Professor Lane intended to find the head of the stream somewhere in the valley, and cross it to the other side."

"With what object, Mr. Young?" He looked at me, not unsympathetic but frankly curious, trying to see my point of view.

"If you get bitten by the past," I said, "whether you're a historian, or an archaeologist, or even a surveyor, it's like a fever in the blood; you never rest content until you've solved the problem before you. I believe that Professor Lane had one object in mind, and that was why he decided to get off at Par rather than Saint Austell. He was determined to walk up this valley, for some reason which we shall probably never discover, despite the railway-line."

"And stood there, with the train passing, and then walked into the rear wagons?"

"Inspector, I don't know. His hearing was good, his eyesight was good, he loved life. He didn't walk into the back of the train deliberately."

"I hope you'll convince the Coroner, Mr. Young, for Professor Lane's sake. You almost convince me."

"Almost?" I asked.

"I'm a policeman, Mr. Young, and there's a piece missing somewhere; but I agree with you, we shall probably never find it."

We retraced our steps up the long field to the gate at the top of the hill. As we drove back I asked him if he had any idea how long it would be before the inquest was held.

"I can't tell you exactly," he answered. "A number of factors are involved. The Coroner will do his best to expedite matters, but it may be ten days or a fortnight, especially as the Coroner is bound to sit with a jury, in view of the unusual circumstances of the death. By the way, the pathologist for the area is on holiday, and the Coroner asked Doctor Powell if he would perform the autopsy, as he had already examined the body. The doctor agreed. We should have his report some time today." I thought of the many times Magnus had dissected animals, birds, plants, bringing to his work a cool detachment which I admired. He suggested once that I should watch him remove the organs of a newly-slaughtered pig. I stood it for five minutes, and then my stomach turned. If anyone had to dissect Magnus now, I was glad it was Doctor Powell. We arrived at the police-station just as the constable came down the steps. He said something to the Inspector, who turned to me.

"We've finished the examination of Professor Lane's clothes and effects," he said. "We are prepared to hand them over to you if you are willing to accept the responsibility."

"Certainly," I replied. "I doubt if anyone else will claim them. I'm hoping to hear from his lawyer, whoever he may be."

The constable returned in a few minutes with a brown paper parcel. The wallet was separate, lying on the top, and a paperback he must have bought to read in the train, Some Experiences of an Irish R.M. by Somerville and Ross. Anything less conducive to a sudden brainstorm or attempted suicide I could not imagine.

"I hope", I sald to the Inspector, "you've noted down the title of the book for the Coroner's attention."

He assured me gravely that he had already done so. I knew I should never open the paper parcel, but I was glad to have the wallet and the stick. I drove back to Kilmarth feeling tired, dispirited, no nearer to a conclusion. Before I turned off the main road I stopped on the crown of Polmear hill to let a car pass. I recognised the driver — it was Doctor Powell. He pulled in at the side of the road by the grass verge, and I did the same. Then he got out and came to my window.

"Hullo," he said. "How are you feeling?"

"All right," I told him. "I've just been out to Treverran tunnel with the Inspector."

"Oh, yes," he said. "Did he tell you I'd done the post mortem?"

"Yes," I said.

"My report goes to the Coroner," he went on, "and you'll know about it in due course. But, unofficially, you would probably like to know that it was the blow on the head that killed Professor Lane, causing extensive haemorrhage to the brain. There were other injuries too, due to falling; there's no doubt he must have walked slap into one of the wagons on the goods train."

"Thank you," I said. "It's good of you to tell me personally."

"Well," he said, "you were his friend, and the most directly concerned. Just one other thing. I had to send the contents of the stomach away for analysis. A matter of routine, actually. Just to satisfy the Coroner and jury he wasn't loaded with whisky or anything else at the time." +º

"Yes," I said, "yes, of course."

"Well, that's about it," he said. "I'll see you in Court." He returned to his own car, and I went slowly down the drive to Kilmarth. Magnus drank sparingly in the middle of the day. He could conceivably have had a gin-and-tonic on the train. Possibly a cup of tea during the afternoon. This much, I supposed, would show up in analysis. What else?

I found Vita and the boys already at lunch. There had been a series of telephone-calls throughout the morning, including one from Magnus's lawyer, a man called Dench, and Bill and Diana from Ireland, who had heard the news over the radio.

"It's going to be endless," said Vita. "Did the Inspector say anything about the inquest?"

"Probably not for ten days or a fortnight," I told her.

"Not much holiday for us," she sighed.

The boys went out of the room to collect their next course and she turned to me, her face anxious. "I didn't say anything in front of them," she said in a low voice, "but Bill was aghast at the news, not just because it was such a tragedy anyway, but because he wondered if there was anything awful behind it. He wasn't specific, but he said you'd know what he meant."

I laid down my knife and fork. "Bill sald what?"

"He was rather mysterious," she sald, "but is it true you told him about some gang of thugs in the neighbourhood who were going about attacking people? He hoped you had told the police."

It only needed that, and Bill's ham-fisted, misplaced efforts to help, to put us all in trouble.

"He's crazy," I said shortly. "I never told him anything of the sort."

"Oh," she said, "oh, well…" and then she added, her face still troubled, "I do hope you have told the Inspector everything you know."

The boys came back into the dining-room and we finished the meal in silence. Afterwards I took the paper-parcel, the wallet and the walking-stick up to the spare-room. Somehow they seemed to belong there, with the rest of the things hanging in the wardrobe. I would use the stick myself; it was the last thing that Magnus had ever held in his hands.

I remembered the collection at the flat. There had been a gun-stick and a sword-stick, a stick with a telescope at one end, and another with a bird's head on the handle. This one was comparatively simple, with the usual silver knob on top, engraved with Commander Lane's initials. He had been the originator of the craze for family walking-sticks, and vaguely I had a recollection of him showing me this particular example, long ago, when I was staying at Kilmarth. It contained some gadget, I had forgotten what, but by pressing the knob down a spring was released. I tried it; nothing happened. I tried it again and then twisted the knob, and something clicked. I unwound the knob and it came away in my hands, and revealed a minute silver-lined measure, just large enough to hold a half-dram of spirit or other liquid. The measure had been wiped clean, probably by a tissue thrown away or buried, when Magnus set off upon his last walk, but I knew now, with absolute certainty, what it must have contained.