MURDERER'S
          MISTAKE

          E. C. R. Lorac





  A WHITE CIRCLE POCKET EDITION
                  # CD 386

Copyright Canada 1949 by Wm. Collins Sons & Co.
                  Canada Ltd.



                 To
         MAUD and JOHN
               jointly,
           not forgetting
BLUE-BELLE, LADY CLARE and SUSIE
  and with gratitude to all those in
  Lunesdale who helped directly or
  indirectly with information and
               advice.



             CHAPTER ONE


  It had been grand harvest weather in Lunesdale.
Even the most reticent among the farmers had been
heard to say: "Aye. We mustn't grumble." The glowing
golden days of late August and early September had
meant hard work for every soul in the valley; but
before the middle of September all the oats had been
carted, and a quantity of it threshed as well.
  Then, about the middle of September, the fine
weather broke. After two days in which the barometer
behaved erratically and the wind wailed in fitful
gusts, the rain came ­ and when it rains in Lancashire
it rains, thoroughly. At first it was a soft grey
mistiness, permeating everything and making the
fields and woods sodden. Then, with a steady west
wind, the rain came down in floods and the river rose
swiftly.
  Mr. Giles Hoggett of Netherbeck Farm, Wenningby,
had no complaint to make. These conditions meant
one thing to Mr. Hoggett ­ fish. By fish he meant
trout, though an occasional eel was not to be despised
these days. Mid-September was not an ideal time of


                           4



year for fishing, but sometimes, after a prolonged
spell of fine weather, if the river rose suddenly, trout
sometimes lost their heads, to use Mr. Hoggett's
description. As the becks filled and poured into the
main stream with any amount of edible matter in
their torrents, the trout would snap madly at this
bounteous manna ­ and that was Mr. Hoggett's
chance. Worm was the bait for these conditions; no
use to be a fly-purist on a day like this. Good, fat,
juicy, worms; Mr. Hoggett had laid in a supply
overnight.
   At breakfast time, Mr. Hoggett was rather silent.
His wife, Katherine, looked gloomily at the weather.
She was thinking of her garden and her husband
knew it. The summer bedding was looking draggled,
and it was time to think about "putting the garden to
bed" ­ clearing, digging and storing. Mr. Hoggett felt
a little bit guilty.
   "No chance to get on the garden today," he said
judicially. "I might do worse than get a few fish."
   Katherine looked around at him.
   "I thought you said you were going to clear up the
near barn and do that limewashing," she said. "It
looks more like a lunatic asylum than anything else ­
and you've got most of'the honey to extract, and
I.want the bench in the potting shed mended."
   Mr. Hoggett finished his coffee. "I'll see to it, Kate ­
but it'll be a good day for fishing, and I want to see
that the cottage in the dales is all right. I'm not sure

                            5



about the roof, and I believe the ditches want
clearing."
  He got up from the table firmly and left Katherine
looking gloomily out of the window.

  Half an hour later Giles Hoggett set out toward the
river. The rain was pouring down so hard that
visibility was reduced to a few yards; it was a gray,
dour world, and Giles Hoggett looked part of the
landscape. Any kindhearted and prosperous
motorist, seeing the laden figure in ancient colorless
raincoat, deplorable sodden hat and shapeless
waders, might well have stopped his car and offered a
coin to the drenched, sorry-looking derelict. Certainly
none would have gone so far as to offer him a lift. Not
the most imaginative could have guessed that Mr.
Hoggett was a modest landowner, a man who had
known the delights of rugger playing as a forward,
who had once paddled peacefully on the Granta or sat
in a backwater imbibing Paley's Evidences and the
philosophic systems of Kant and Hegel.
  The road he followed was midway up the scarp on
the north bank of the river. He passed two other farm
houses and was then about to turn down the steep
brow which led to the valley bottom and the river. At
the junction of the ways he saw another figure
ascending the brow. Early though Mr. Hoggett was, a
fellow landowner had been earlier, it seemed. This
was Mr. Shand, whose land bordered Mr. Hoggett's,


                          6



but the former was owner of a much greater acreage,
and was a gentleman of some importance ­ though
being a comparative newcomer to the district, his
importance was only considered in inverse ratio to
the duration of his ownership in Wenningby. Mr.
Shand wore a very fine and capacious raincoat, a new
sou'wester and good looking waders. His creel had
the same prosperous appearance.
  Mr. Hoggett greeted him pleasantly.
  "Good morning; Mr. Shand. A bit dampish today."
  Mr. Hoggett was not making a deliberate
understatement, or even indulging in negative
hyperbole. He had unconsciously attuned his speech
and tempo to those of the farmers from whom he was
proud to have been derived. The teeming sodden day
was "a bit dampish," that was all.
  "Good day, Mr. Hoggett. River's rising well," barked
the other. "No use to a fly fisherman though."
  He nodded and pursued his way and Giles Hoggett
tramped happily on down the brow. The gradient was
so steep that the roadway was impossible for any
wheeled traffic except farm carts, and even for these
it was a heavy pull.
  Arrived at the bottom, Giles Hoggett turned
dutifully toward the cottage. He wasn't really anxious
about either its ancient flagged roof or its unkempt
ditches, but he had told Katherine he was going to
inspect it, and he was a very truthful man.


                           7



  The cottage stood some hundred yards from the
river, a low stone wall separating it from the dales ­
the rich hayland which had been divided into strips
among the inhabitants almost before the drawn of
history. Giles Hoggett was proud that he, and his
ancestors before him, owned some of the dales; also
their possession gave him fishing rights. The cottage
was an ancient building, stone-walled with
stone-flagged roof, and a stone barn. It had probably
stood there for several centuries, and its long roof
covered shippon and barn as well as dwelling house.
Since the time of Giles Hoggett's father, the cottage
had been used as a holiday dwelling for the Hoggett
family, while the hay barn and shippon were let with
the dales to Richard Blackthorn, one of the biggest
farmers in Wenningby. The fact that the place was so
inaccessible had saved its being commandeered by
billetting officers in the war, and the Hoggett family
had had the undisputed use of it as their own private
playground.
  Giles was deeply attached to the place, for it
seemed part of his very roots, a place he had always
known; it was always the same, peaceful, silent,
solitary, and it always seemed to welcome him as if it
had been waiting for him. When he was a boy, Giles
Hoggett had had a secret dream that he would one
day come and live by the river in Wenningby Barns,
and wherever he had gone, either to University, or in
the Army, he had carried the thought of the cottage


                          8



with him ­ something peaceful, safe, and exceedingly
desirable.
  Giles had not been down to the cottage for some
weeks because harvest work had kept him busy in the
fields above (the dales had never been ploughed), and
he was glad of a chance to come and see that all was
in order.
  He entered the garden by a stiff little iron gate set
in the low stone wall, and gave a glance to see that the
fold yard beyond was draining properly. He next
glanced, as a matter of habit, at his woodpile.
  His first glance at the woodpile showed Mr.
Hoggett that something was amiss. Some of the logs
were scattered on the grass, as though somebody had
withdrawn one, carelessly, and others had toppled
down. Mr. Hoggett's reaction was immediate.
  "Someone from away has been meddling."
  No one in Wenningby would have disturbed his
woodpile. Somewhat put out, for he resented even the
thought of trespassers in the cottage garden, Giles
Hoggett walked up to the door of the cottage, and
then stood feeling foolish, his jaw dropping a little.
He had forgotten the keys. He had been so taken up
with the thought of fishing that he had omitted to get
the keys from their hook up at the farm. As he stood
there, with the rain running off his hat, he paused to
think. Now had he seen those keys lately? He thought
back, remembering the last time the cottage had been
used. Nearly a month back, when George and his

                           9



family came for a few days, and they had all bathed in
the river in the hot August sunshine. He seemed to
remember saying to George: "Don't bother to bring
the keys up. Leave them in the usual place and I'll
fetch them."
  Had he done so? A rather sheepish grin turned up
the corners of Mr. Hoggett's close- shut lips. "A good
thing Kate didn't come here first," he said to himself,
and began to search in "the usual place." This was
behind a loose stone in a crevice in the porch. The
keys were there all right, and Mr. Hoggett went
inside.

  Mrs. Hoggett, when she put the house to rights,
realizing that the weather would preclude any
out-of-door activities today, decided to make a virtue
of necessity and do a day's mending. She was an
industrious woman, but wartime mending had
become a weariness and she felt that she hated the
sight of Giles' socks and stockings and shirts. He
seemed to have a genius for making holes and even
larger holes. She looked at the wireless' programs,
hoping for a little entertainment to enliven her
labors, but there was nothing she could listen to.
Katherine Hoggett had a very selective mind.
  Since the wireless was quite unhelpful, she lighted
a fire: at least she could toast her toes in comfort
while she darned. Giles always forgot the time when
he went fishing and though he had not taken any


                          10



food with him, it was quite likely that he would not
turn up until teatime.
   It was a matter of considerable surprise to her,
therefore, when she heard his footsteps before
midday, and she looked up to see a dripping
apparition standing in the doorway which led to the
kitchen.
   "Take your coat off," she said promptly, looking at
the runnels of water on the flagstones, and then:
"What's the matter?"
   Giles took his coat off, and a moment later came
into the sitting room in his stockinged feet and stood
by the fire.
   "Someone's been in the cottage, Kate."
   "I'm not surprised. Did you bring the keys up? I
thought not. What have they taken this time?"
   It was not the first time the cottage had been
broken into.
   Mr. Hoggett lighted a cigarette and sat down by the
fire.
   "It's a queer business. I can't make it out," he said,
then added: "Will you come down there with me?"
   "What on earth for? On a day like this too," she said
indignantly. "You know what's there. If you've missed
anything, say so. Did you leave any of your coats
down there again?"



                           11



  "Only my old raincoat. I want you to come down
because you know just how things were left. You'll
notice at once if anything's amiss. I'm puzzled."
  Katherine studied her husband's face. She knew of
his particular attachment to the cottage, but he was
behaving a bit oddly; he was generally a very
reasonable man.
  She put her darning back into the basket.
  "All right. I'll come ­ but if I do, you can come back
to dinner sensibly and go fishing again later if you
must."
  He agreed without a murmur, and she went and
fetched raincoat and gum-boots, and they set out
together in silence.
  "Anyone might imagine you'd found a corpse in
the cottage," she said.
  Mr. Hoggett replied solemnly, "Oh, no, there's no
corpse. Honestly there isn't. I shouldn't ask you to
come and see it if there were. I just want your
opinion, that's all."
  Katherine Hoggett pulled off her streaming
raincoat before she entered the cottage ­ she hated
seeing water run over the flagstones ­ and when she
was inside she stood and looked around her, glancing
this way and that.
  At length she said:
  "Someone's had a fire since I was here; the hearth
wasn't left like that. I came down here on the

                           12



morning the Georges were leaving and the hearth was
swept perfectly clear and the fire irons stood up as we
always leave them. Someone's tried to tidy the hearth,
but they weren't much good at it."
  She advanced over the flagged kitchen floor to the
great open chimney and stared at the ashes on the
ancient hearthstone, curling up her nostrils a little.
  "That's not wood-ash; someone has burnt an old
coat or something like that; and the chain and hook
have gone."
  "Yes," agreed Mr. Hoggett.
  He came beside her and knelt down by the hearth,
peering up the open chimney. There had always been
a chain hanging from a staple inside the chimney
with a hook at the end on which the big iron kettle
was suspended. The kettle was still there standing on
the hearth (and these days it was a very valuable
kettle).
  "Do you notice anything else?" he inquired
anxiously.
  "Yes, of course. Your iron dogs have gone."
  Giles Hoggett's "iron dogs" were two blocks of
metal he had acquired to support logs on the hearth.
The chimney was so wide it was possible to have a
huge log fire on the flat hearthstone, and some sort of
props made it easier to support the big logs so that
they burnt to best advantage. Giles Hoggett had
carried these weighty irons down the brow, and he
resented their disappearance.

                           13



  Katherine turned to her husband.
  "What else has gone?" she demanded.
  "A complete reel of salmon line ­ very good line,
and some food. You'd better look in the larder and
see what's missing."
  Katherine walked into the old dairy which was now
used as a larder, and her husband stood by the open
hearth, having lighted a cigarette, and cogitated
deeply. He ran his fingers through his thick, grizzled
hair as he stood. Many a book lover would have
recognized that unconscious accompaniment of deep
thought on Mr. Hoggett's part, for before he had
come back to the north to farm some of his own
acres, he had been a bookseller ­ and a very good
bookseller, wise, leisurely, appreciative.
  Standing by the empty hearth in Wenningby Barns
(for so the cottage was named) clad in ancient tweeds
which his wife had given up mending in despair long
ago, Giles Hoggett looked exactly as he had so often
looked when considering a bookselling problem.
  "I want a book whose name I have forgotten by an
author I don't know and it's a sort of world history
written before H. G. Wells thought of doing it."
  Such was the type of problem Mr. Hoggett used to
solve.
  "Aye. It'd be Wynwood Reade you're thinking of,"
he would reply, after having ruffled his hair up.



                           14



  So today, Giles Hoggett, of Wenningby, small
holder, ran his fingers through his hair. "The chain
and hook, two iron dogs, salmon line and my old
raincoat," he murmured to himself.
  Katherine came into the room again: a strong,
trim, well balanced figure, practical to the tips of her
competent fingers, sensible and self-possessed.
  "My clothesline has gone too, and that big sack you
used for bringing logs in ­ you left it here, didn't
you?"
  "The sack ­ aye, I left it here," said Mr. Hoggett.
  "And I think some eggs have gone, but I can't be
sure," she went on. "I put some down in March but
the Georges may have had some."
  "George brought his own eggs," said Mr. Hoggett.
"There's a tin of beans and another of sardines gone
from the iron ration; the tins are outside. He tried to
bury them, but he couldn't find a spade. He must
have used the coal shovel."
  Katherine laughed. When she laughed it didn't
matter that her hair was gray: her face became young
again, the merry face of Kate Rivers of twenty-five
years ago. Fresh complexioned, gray-eyed,
strong-muscled, Kate Hoggett was a wonderful fifty.
  Her husband looked a little indignant.
  "I'm not so sure it's a laughing matter," he said
portentously.



                          15



  "Perhaps it isn't, you poor old misery," she
retorted, "but if you could only see what you look like
in those clothes, streaming with water, talking about
burying things with coal shovels, you'd have to laugh
too. He can't have buried much with a coal shovel,
anyway. All the tools are locked up in the loft ­
because I locked them there. Have you noticed
anything else?"
  "My old raincoat's gone; and George's fishing cap,
and father's spectacles; also the old creel, and Uncle
Henry's trout rod."
  Katherine looked at him suspiciously.
  "Don't go making things up," she warned him. "I
believe the old creel fell to pieces ages ago, and I
know we used your father's spectacles for charades
last winter and George's fishing cap, too. As for your
old coat, I'd been meaning to send it for salvage, only
it smelled so awful after you'd used it for mucking
out the shippon."
  "It was a very good coat," said Mr. Hoggett
indignantly. "I was very fond of it."
  "Never mind," she replied cheerfully. "You haven't
lost anything that matters. If a tramp slept in here
and made a fire and had his supper, you've no
business to complain. You'd better be more careful
about the key in future. It looks as though someone
has spotted the place where you hide it."



                           16



  "But you don't understand, Kate," said Mr. Hoggett,
speaking very seriously. "It's not the  value  of the
things which have gone that matters."
  "No, I know it's not," she said serenely. "It's your
detective instinct. I told you if you read so many
detective stories you'd be getting the subject on the
brain. I quite agree you could make a good story out
of 'The Burglary at Wenningby Barns' ­ so the best
thing you can do is to come home and write it, while
you're in the mood. Crime pays much better than
cows."
  Giles Hoggett rumpled his hair up again.
  "I don't think you realize all the implications," he
said. "I looked around outside before I went to fetch
you. I found traces of wheels, and some very big
footprints. Unfortunately the river came up and
expunged the evidence before I could take any
measurements."
  Mrs. Hoggett sneezed.
  "It's cold down here. Giles. If you want to stop here
to argue, I'm going to light a fire."
  "Not there, Kate, not there!" exclaimed Mr. Hoggett
in scandalized tones. "You don't know what's been
burnt there..."
  "I do. An old coat. Probably yours. It smelled.
Perhaps the tramp was particular. If you won't light a
fire, I'm not going to stay here. I'm going up to get
dinner. It's Irish stew and dumplings, and they're
horrid when they're cold, so don't be too long..."

                            17



  Mr. Hoggett wasn't listening.
  "I believe it's those potters," he murmured to
himself, as his wife pulled on her coat and went out
into the rain again.



























                         18



            CHAPTER TWO


  Mr. Hoggett got home in time to enjoy the Irish
stew and dumplings, with apple cake to follow. He
was very silent during the greater part of the meal,
but when he drew up to the fire and lighted his
cigarette, he unburdened his soul to his wife as she
sat and darned his socks and shirts. Mr. Hoggerty put
forward his evidence very clearly and cogently and
proceeded to his quite reasonable deductions. He
ended up with a weighty peroration.
  "I have always said that I distrusted the potters.
Reuben Gold and his wife are anti-social nomads.
Whenever there's been a case of thieving hereabouts I
have been certain they were at the bottom of it. They
had the ducks we lost last December, I never doubted
it. They had Allan's geese and Mrs. Clout's sheets
which were stolen from her washing-line."
  Mrs. Hoggett intervened here. "It's no use saying
the Golds were the thieves if you have no evidence to
support it. You may suspect them ­ and you told
Sergeant Cobley you suspected them at the time, but
he was quite right in saying that you had no evidence,


                         19



and the Golds proved that they were at Preston when
our ducks were stolen."
  Mr. Hoggett was silent. He had been very angry
about the loss of his ducks, which had been stolen
one night just before they were ready for the
Christmas market. Reuben Gold and his wife Sarah
were itinerant hawkers: "tinkers" was the term which
would have described them in the south; "potters"
was the northern idiom. They would buy any old
junk-rags and bones, old metal, rabbit skins, crocks,
old clothes, broken furniture. They had a decrepit
cart and an ancient nag, and they plied their trade
from Carnton in the north to Preston in the south.
Sometimes they had goods for sale on a hawkers'
license, combs and pins, brushes and brooms,
besoms and mats ­ but as a general rule they sought
to buy any old oddments which housewives were
willing to dispense with. They would also act as
carriers or take messages for anybody who trusted
them. All the farmers regarded them with suspicion,
and Giles Hoggett would have found plenty of worthy
neighbors to support him in his belief that any petty
theft in the district could be blamed on to Reuben
Gold and his wife, but it was a fact that they had
never been convicted of any offense. They always had
an alibi when thefts had occurred in the Wenningby
district.
  The local police knew all about the Golds, and
Sergeant Cobley had wasted a good deal of his
valuable time in the effort to bring offenses home to

                           20



them, but the sergeant had been quite unsuccessful.
Far from earning a feather in his cap on the only
occasion when he had charged them in court, the
sergeant had lost a lot of prestige, because his
evidence had been incomplete, and the Golds had
been clever enough to let him produce his evidence
before they proved their own alibi. There had been a
new J.P. sitting on the bench on the occasion of this
case, and he had lent a sympathetic ear to the potters'
whines about police persecution. It had been a poor
day for Sergeant Cobley, and he had gone home
feeling hot under the collar, swearing he would let the
lying varmints alone until he had absolutely
fool-proof, copper-bottomed evidence to convict
them on.
  Of course, both Giles Hoggett and his wife knew all
about the sergeant's troubles, and Katherine was
quite right in reminding Giles that he only risked a
snubbing if he reported nebulous suspicions without
conclusive evidence.
  Having heard all her husband's recital, she
summed up:
  "What indisputable facts have you, Giles? Someone
has been in the cottage; you are sure of it and I'm
sure of it. Someone lighted a fire and meddled with
your woodpile; but I doubt if the magistrates would
really believe that I could swear to the condition of
the hearth. The chain and hook have gone, and the
iron dogs, but neither is of any value; and they might
argue that some children had been playing tricks.

                          21



Apart from that, you have no conclusive evidence.
The clothesline and sack may have been moved at
any time. I can't swear to the time I last saw them ­
and neither can you. One tin of beans is very much
like another, and I don't believe you could really
swear that your salmon line was still in the cottage."
  "I could," said Mr. Hoggett morosely, and then,
because he had a very sensitive conscience, he added:
"At least, I think I could."
  His wife laughed.
  "That's just it, Giles. Neither you nor I would be a
bit good at swearing to something we weren't sure of.
You could say you were morally certain the salmon
line had gone, but in court you've got to swear by
Almighty God..."
  "I know that," said Mr. Hoggett sadly. He was
kicking his toes ­ a sure sign of unease. "Then there's
the bogie tracks, the footprints and that bit of curtain
stuff I found in the dales," he went on.
  The "bogie" was a contraption on wheels which Mr.
Hoggett had fabricated in an optimistic moment,
saying (in defiance of Katherine's judgment) that the
easiest way of getting suitcases up the brow was by
harnessing himself to a wheeled vehicle, and pulling
like a cart horse. The experiment had been tried once
only, for despite Mr. Hoggett's determination to act
as a horse, the "bogie" was a complete failure. It had
jibbed, it had side-slipped and finally capsized; the
suitcases were rescued from the ditch, and the "bogie"

                                22



had ambled back to the dales under its own velocity.
Since then it had been relegated to a corner of the hay
barn at the cottage, save when the children used it to
play with. Mr. Hoggett felt that to have entered the
bogie as serious evidence while talking to his wife was
a tactical error, because Kate felt every symptom of
acute appendicitis the moment the contraption was
mentioned. She had laughed so much, on the only
occasion the bogie had seen active service that the
mere mention of it gave her the pain which
accompanies excessive mirth.
  "The bogie tracks," persisted Mr. Hoggett
painstakingly. "I saw them in the dales, just across
the stones crossing the ditch. I hadn't time to
measure them, because the flood water rose while I
stood there."
  "Canute..." murmured Mrs. Hoggett, firmly
controlling the mirth which unfairly tried to
demoralize her. After all, Giles was in dead earnest,
but he must have looked very funny standing in the
pouring rain while the tracks of his bogie were
"expunged" as he had said, by the rising flood.
  "So you can't enter the tracks as evidence," she said
firmly, "nor the large footprints. They were probably
your own. As for the piece of curtain you bought
back, it's true I did  give those curtains to the potters;
it was less trouble than burning them, and they were
quite rotten, but I couldn't swear I didn't give some
pieces to the children when they were playing Red
Indians down there."

                           23



  Mr. Hoggett looked hurt.
  "You're not being helpful, Kate," he said, and she
replied:
  "I know I'm not, but it's much better for me to tell
you all the defects in the evidence than for the
sergeant to do it. Anyway I am not going to swear to
anything at all unless I'm absolutely positive it's an
objective fact, observed by me, without any
possibility of mistake."
  "Of course," murmured Mr. Hoggett, and she went
on:
  "You'd much better get some paper and make a
short story of it. You could write jolly good stories if
you'd only take the trouble."
  Mr. Hoggett got to his feet. "It's no time of day to
start writing," he said. "I'm going to see the beasts are
all right. That Friesian heifer has been trying to break
out of the pasture into the meadow again."
  "None of your cows has any feeling for discipline,"
murmured Katherine.
  True to his declaration, as always, Mr. Hoggett
went to the nearby pasture to inspect his stock. He
had now two cows in milk: a blue roan named Blue
Belle, with the accent on "Belle" because Mrs. Hoggett
said she was the ugliest cow in the neighborhood, and
Suzette, a mild lustrous-eyed companionable young
Friesian, black, save for graceful white lines down her
flanks and a white belly. In addition to this modest
milking herd was a two-year-old Friesian heifer, Lady

                            24



Clare, the pride of Mr. Hoggett's pasture. He had
bought her as a small calf, impressed by her build
and coat, and she had developed into a beauty, with
creamy white dewlap and quarters and a broad white
star on her forehead.
  Lady Clare had been fed and tended by Mr. Hoggett
alone since her arrival, and she behaved far more like
a domestic pet than any heifer should, running up to
her master and curvetting around him every time he
put in an appearance. Mr. Hoggett knew quite well
that Lady Clare had broken bounds and was having
an illegitimate gorge in the rich bog grass in his
meadow, where she had no right to be. He found, as
he expected, that his three stirks, Nanette, Patchey
and Kitty, had managed to follow Lady Clare into the
forbidden territory, though the sedate milking cows,
and Rosie ­ a roan cow who was in calf ­ were
standing morosely in the pasture, considering the gap
in the hedge made by their slimmer and more athletic
juniors.
  Mr. Hoggett considered the situation. If he
rounded up the truants and opened the gate between
the meadow and the pasture to drive them through,
the stirks would almost certainly elude him again. If,
on the other hand, he opened the gate first and then
rounded up the trio, the cows would immediately
take advantage of him and hasten into the meadow.
He decided to let the situation alone until he had
some co-operation.


                         25



  Leaving his own acres, Mr. Hoggett turned up
toward the main road. He had an idea. Some three
miles lower down the valley was the village of
Garthmere, where Garthmere Hall stood above the
River Lune. The bailiff of the Garthmere estate was
one John Staple, a man of sixty, full of ripe knowledge
concerning the land and its cultivation, and
cognizant, moreover, of everything that happened in
Lunesdale. Giles Hoggett decided to consult John
Staple concerning his present problem at Wenningby
Barns, for not only was Staple knowledgeable about
local matters, but he had had experience of detective
procedure when a chief inspector of the Criminal
Investigation Department had come to Garthmere the
previous year to investigate the death of old Robert
Garth.
  Staple had formed a real regard for the Scotland
Yard man, whom he held to be a man of notable
common sense, willing to profit by the experience of
others, and not at all a daft southerner. Mr. Hoggett
had heard that this same chief inspector had fulfilled
a promise made to John Staple and had come up to
lend a hand at haymaking. Report had it that C.I.D.
man had shaped well for a novice, and by the end of
his week had been fit to trust with most of the jobs at
haymaking for the simple reason that he did just
what he was told, "and a power o' folk ha'n't the sense
to do that" as old Bob Moffat had said.
  The rain was still falling steadily, and by the time
Giles Hoggett had breasted the hill to the main road,

                          26



he could see the river had risen until the flood
covered the dales, "a white unbroken radiance." It
was a beautiful sight, with the gray fells rising to the
shoulder of Clougha in the west, and white drifts of
mist settled in the hollows. Mr. Hoggett was not
consciously aware of any aesthetic admiration: he
had seen such floods too often; it was just part of his
experience, a phase in the life of Lunesdale which had
become his life, too. And the trout would be quite
demoralized by now, sated, so that no worm could
tempt them.
  Giles Hoggett found the Garthmere bailiff in his
barn, checking up on the contents of his bins, and
seeing that the gear used at harvest was well housed
for its winter retirement, cleaned and oiled and in
order. Hoggett looked thoughtfully round the barn, as
he waited for John Staple to finish putting the hinges
of a bin to rights. The disorder of this barn was
unlike his own: it was an orderly disorder, from
which a planning mind could be deduced. Even
Katherine, excessively tidy though she was, would not
have called this barn "a lunatic asylum" as she had
called his.
  "Kate's quite right. I must see to it," thought Mr.
Hoggett just as John Staple turned round with an
inquiring "Eh...?" ­ that aggregate of vowels uttered
in such varying tones by all good Lancastrians, and
quite inimitable to the southerner.
  "Good-day, Mr. Staple. I hoped I might find you at
home today; dampish for outdoor jobs."

                          27



  "Good-day, Mr. Hoggett; you're very welcome."
  John Staple was a sturdy gray-haired fellow, with a
fine long head and blue-gray eyes. He spoke with the
ease and courtesy of the northerner, who yet calls no
man "Sir."
  "That roan cow calved yet?" he inquired.
  "Not yet," replied Mr. Hoggett. "I'm hoping she'll
drop a heifer; she comes of a good milking strain and
I reckon she should have a good bag."
  "Aye, I mind you bought her from Aughton,"
replied Staple. "'I had a cow from that same herd, a
shorthorn. Five gallons she gave. Come inside, Mr.
Hoggett. I'm through here, and I've nought to do that
can't bide till after milking."
  Seated in the comfortable farm-house kitchen,
Giles Hoggett stretched his legs to the fire and began
to feel happier. Staple was the man he wanted, no
doubt about that.
  "You remember the potters, Mr. Staple ­ Reuben
and Sarah Gold?"
  "Aye, I mind them, and a good-for-nothing pair
they are. If they put their noses inside my fold yard
they know what to expect because I've warned them,"
  "Aye. I think you're quite right," said. Mr. Hoggett.
"Have you seen them of late?"
  "Aye. I saw their outfit on the Borwick road, and
I'm told Reuben Gold was seen in Yealand Conyers ­
but not his old woman."

                            28



  "Ah," said Mr. Hoggett, and his tone spoke
volumes. He leaned forward confidentially.
  "I hope you've the patience to listen to rather a
long story, Mr. Staple. The fact is I'm worried, and
I've come to you for advice. I was down at Wenningby
Barns this morning..." and Mr. Hoggett told his story.
  John Staple was a much more satisfactory audience
than Kate Hoggett had been. He was interested from
the word go. Staple knew all the habits and
conventions of life in Lunesdale. He took it seriously
that a man's garden had been entered and his
wood-pile meddled with. He entered wholeheartedly
into Mr. Hoggett's resentment concerning "liberties"
with his property, and when it came to the list of
missing objects, he saw the point without further
leading.
  "Eh... but that looks like dark doings to me," he
said simply. "For why should a housebreaker take a
sack and cord and salmon line, eh, and weights, too? I
don't like the sound of yon o'er much."
  They sat in silence, cogitating. Had a portraitist
been there, he would have been interested in the
salient points of resemblance between the two men.
Hoggett was more erect and slighter in the hips, but
both men had the long heads, strongly marked brows
and light eyes of the Norse. John Staple had never left
his own fell country; Giles Hoggett had spent thirty
years in the south midlands, but now, as he grew
older, he reverted in appearance to his northern


                          29



forebears. Sitting by John Staple's fireside, he was just
part of the picture.
  Staple scratched his short stubby gray head, and
broke the silence.
  "With the river up, what d'you reckon's the depth
of that pool down yonder end of your dales, Mr.
Hoggett?"
  "Jacob's Buttery?" queried Mr. Hoggett, giving the
pool its traditional name. "I'd say it's never less than
ten feet. It may be nearer twenty today. The river
scours its bed as it rounds the bend and that pool is
always deep."
  "Aye. That's the way of it. I've known beasts drown
in Jacob's Buttery," said Staple.
  "And Reuben Gold's wife hasn't been with him of
late?" inquired Mr. Hoggett.
  John Staple did not reply. There was no need to.
Both men were following an identical train of
thought, in complete sympathy.
  "That's the deepest pool for a tidy stretch, either up
or down stream," said John Staple. "With the fine
weather we had for harvest the river was very low
these past weeks. Jacob's Buttery is the only pool
which would serve that purpose between Garthmere
and Wenningby I reckon."
  Giles Hoggett was beginning to feel very much
perturbed. Now he had to face the logical results of



                           30



his own deductions, he felt like John Staple. "I don't
like yon o'er much."
  He tried to minimize his own apprehensions.
  "Perhaps I'm making too much of it, Mr. Staple.
After all, this is only guess-work."
  "Call it guess-work if you like, Mr. Hoggett. T'isn't
guess-work about those iron dogs disappearing, is it?
How much did they weigh?"
  "Twenty pounds the pair."
  "Aye. And for why should a tramp burden himself
with a weight like that, and take an empty sack and
line when he could have filled the sack with good
tinned victuals? I don't see it, Mr. Hoggett. 'Twas a big
sack?"
  "Aye, a chaff sack."
  The two were silent again. Both knew all about the
capacity of sacks.
  At last Mr. Hoggett broke out:
  "What ought I do? If I go to the sergeant with a tale
like this he'd tell me I was imagining things."
  "Aye. Likely he would."
  Then Mr. Hoggett got to the point.
  "This Scotland Yard man who came up here for
haymaking ­ wasn't he a capable sort of fellow?"
  "Aye. He was that. A sensible, hard-working chap
he was, forthright too, no sort of nonsense about him,
aye, and he could use his head. A very useful,

                             31



reasonable man ­ and kindly, too. Did his job well, as
I'd reason to be grateful for. But he's not hereabouts
now. He's back in London."
  "I could write to him," said Mr. Hoggett. "I tell you
what. I'll put the story down on paper and send it to
him and let him use his own judgement. If he thinks
it's all moonshine, well, no matter. I shall have got it
off my chest, and nobody will ever be able to say I
didn't do anything about it."
  John Staple scratched his head thoughtfully. He
was used to keeping accounts and to filling in forms
and making returns, but to put a long story down on
paper was the sort of activity for which he had no
liking.
  "Rather you than me," he muttered, and then
brightened perceptibly.
  "See here, Mr. Hoggett," he said. "You're like one of
us these days, though happen you've not our
experience in farming because you took to it late ­
though you're shaping none so badly ­ but you're
used to a pen and paper. Happen you could put it all
down, plain and straightforward, though it'd take me
a month o' Sundays and a sorry mess I'd make of it.
You do as you say, and tell Mr. Macdonald I advised
you to write. He told me if ever I was bothered by
aught I could write to him and he'd tell me the rights
of it if he could. That was when we were having crack
about wills and such like. He's got a head on him, and
he's a plain man, not conceited like because he's a


                           32



London policeman. He wasn't too proud to ask advice
from me. Aye. Reckon you couldn't do better."





























                         33



          CHAPTER THREE


  Mr. Hoggett's letter was duly delivered at Scotland
Yard, and Chief-Inspector Macdonald found it lying
uppermost on his desk when he arrived at his office
on Thursday, September 16th. Macdonald had a
varied mail. His name was well known, and various
eccentric persons took it into their heads to write to
him about problems not always connected with the
C.I.D. He was accustomed to warnings concerning the
end of the world (frequently imminent); he had many
letters from persons suffering from persecution
complexes of varying kinds; he had many offers of
assistance from those whose friends told them they
were born detectives; he also had some letters of
abuse.
  Mr. Hoggett's decent envelope and clerkly hand
looked different from most of the shoddy missives
which lay below it, but the point which really took
Macdonald's attention was the postmark,
LANCASTER. It brightened his morning, as though a
honey-laden breeze from the fells blew through the
room. Macdonald had a momentary vision of Crook
o' Lune, shining in the September sunshine, and

                         34



Ingleborough behind him, with Penyghent and
Whernside. He turned the letter over and read the
address on the back: "From Giles Hoggett, Farmer,
Netherbeck Farm, Wenningby, Lunesdale."
  The bulk of the envelope told him that this was no
brief communication. On impulse he shoved it into
his pocket.
  "I'll read it at lunch," he said to himself, with a
quite illogical feeling that this letter from an
unknown farmer in Lunesdale was going to give him
pleasure.
  Macdonald's morning was spent in sifting reports
concerning a missing man. This latter, by name
Gordon Ginner, had left his lodgings in a midland
town a month ago and had disappeared into the blue.
The inquiry about him had been set on foot by a
middle-aged widow who was affianced to the missing
man. She had gone to the local police in a great state
of alarm saying that she was certain he had been
murdered, and producing a long, vague story about
"enemies." The Midshire police had not been much
impressed. Frankly they thought Mr. Ginner had
done a bolt to escape from the importunate widow.
However, as the days went on and no news came in
concerning the missing man, it seemed reasonable to
look into the circumstances.
  The fact which quickened the interest of the police
was the discovery of a letter which seemed connected
with a theft of clothing coupons which had occurred


                         35



recently. Since this letter had been posted in London,
the Metropolitan Police were informed, and the
activities of Mr. Ginner considered from a London
angle. It was soon found that he had rooms in
Pimlico, but he had not visited them for some weeks.
Letters found here indicated even more plainly that
Mr. Gordon Ginner may well have thought it wise to
"beat it." Undoubtedly he was connected in some
illicit dealings with the wholesale wool market.
Macdonald was occupied in making out a précis from
the various reports which had come in. It was a dull,
plodding job, analyzing the essential points
concerned with the comings and goings of a very
commonplace rogue ­ one of the Smart Alec type who
make a good deal of money until their doings are
brought to the notice of the police.
  When it was time for him to get a meal, Macdonald
strolled northwards to a restaurant in Covent Garden.
Here, seated in a quiet corner, he drew Mr. Hoggett's
letter from his pocket and read it through; then he
re-read it.
  Mrs. Hoggett was perfectly correct in saying that
Giles could write when he tried; his letter was not
only an excellently clear description of what Mr.
Hoggett had noticed that wet morning at Wenningby
Barns; the narrative had a quality which made
Macdonald feel that he knew Mr. Hoggett, that he had
seen Wenningby Barns, that the wheel-marks of the
"bogie" were reasonably to be connected with the loss
of the iron dogs, the chain and hook, the salmon line

                          36



and sack, the tin of beans and sardines, and Mrs.
Hoggett's clothesline. Macdonald was even pleased to
note that George had brought his own eggs with him.
  When he finally got up from his meal, Macdonald
said to himself : "Thank you very much, Mr. Hoggett.
I enjoyed that."
  He went back to his researches concerning the
wool-trade reprobate, but one word in Mr. Hoggett's
narrative stuck in his mind.
  "Potters," murmured Macdonald.
  He turned back to one of those dreary police
reports, containing the evidence of a lorry driver who
fared from Manchester and Liverpool to Leeds and
the other Yorkshire cities.
  "I have known Ginner for some time. I believe he
was born in Lancashire, but he lived in Kendal at one
time. He was generally in with a low lot ­ bookies and
that. He had a row with some tinker folk at a coffee
stall one day ­ something about recognizing the old
girl and something about a pottery. I think it was a
pottery. It might have been a china shop." (Police
query: Bucket shop?)
  Macdonald pondered as he put the paper down.
  "Pottery... Why not potters?" he asked himself, and
then chuckled. This was wishful thinking with a
vengeance, or wasn't it? He worked away at the
ramifications of Mr. Gordon Ginner, and the more he
thought about it, the more necessary it seemed to go
to Manchester to consult with his colleagues there

                               37



about the desirability of asking for a warrant to be
made out. The evidence against Mr. Ginner was by no
means conclusive; a skillful counsel would have made
hay of it in no time, but it was obviously desirable to
"pull in" anyone connected with the frauds in
question.
  Macdonald decided to write a brief report based on
the essential facts he had culled from the papers
which had been sent to him, and to hand in his own
report without further comment to his Assistant
Commissioner. This done, he decided to acknowledge
Mr. Hoggett's effort, and wrote as follows:

        "Dear Mr. Hoggett. I write to acknowledge the
letter which you wrote at the suggestion of my friend
Mr. Staple. I was much interested in the facts you
described so clearly; and I will let you know at a later
date if any official action be decided on. This
acknowledgement is a personal one, so I can add that
your description of your Lunesdale property made me
envious. Yours truly, Robert Macdonald."

  When Colonel Wragley saw Macdonald that
evening he said:
  "You seem to be collecting some useful data about
the coupon ramp, Macdonald. Do you think a
consultation is advisable? The Manchester men would
have no objection to a visit to London and something
of the kind seems to be indicated."

                          38



  Macdonald allowed himself a chuckle.
  "I'm sure the Manchester men wouldn't object to a
London consultation, sir. For my own part, I should
have no objection to a consultation in Manchester.
Tomorrow is Friday. The Sabbath cometh, when no
man should work unless compelled by urgent duty."
  Wragley laughed good-humoredly.
  "Have it your own way, then. You don't often
suggest combining duty and pleasure, Macdonald. A
week-end in Manchester isn't my own idea of
enjoyment. However, good luck to you. I think you've
made some very good points in that report, and the
sooner we get this particular set of gentry in the dock,
the better for everybody. This coupon business is an
infernal nuisance, all the same. It's about doubled the
work of the police."
  Macdonald agreed, but with inward reservations.
He had no particular liking for Manchester, but
Kendal had been mentioned in the evidence about
Ginner and a week-end in Kendal was not to be
despised. Moreover, the route for Manchester to
Kendal undoubtedly ran through Lancaster. Whether
Mr. Hoggett's discoveries had anything to do with any
case on which Macdonald was employed was highly
speculative, but since Mr. Hoggett had written a
personal letter to that Robert Macdonald who was a
friend of Mr. Staple's, the chief inspector saw no
reason why he should not pay a friendly call at
Netherbeck Farm.


                          39



  Macdonald reached Manchester by midday on
Friday. He had a satisfactory "crack" with his
colleagues, comparing notes on the London and
Midland aspects of the case against Ginner, and
determined to get a warrant out against that elusive
gentleman. By four o'clock Macdonald had concluded
his consultation, and shortly afterwards was in a train
heading north for Lancaster, a knapsack on his back
and a holiday feeling in his mind.
  It was a fine clear evening when he reached
Lancaster, and the gray mass of John of Gaunt's castle
towered grandly above the Lune, a somber silhouette
which had majesty in its severe outlines. Macdonald
found a car for hire in the station yard, and decided
to trust to luck that the inn where he had stayed
before would provide him with a bed. He could have
telephoned, of course, but he knew quite well why he
didn't stay to do so. The light would soon be fading,
and he wanted to see Ingleborough again that
evening.
  He told his driver to take him as far as the hill
above Garthmere ­ some mile or so from the main
Lancaster-Carnton road ­ and soon he was driving
eastwards from Lancaster, breasting the hills which
climbed steadily up on the north bank of the Lune.
After twenty minutes' driving, he paid off his hired
car and continued his way on foot.
  Macdonald had a feeling for hill country and he
liked walking. When he breasted the next rise he
knew that his impulse to get out and walk was

                          40



justified; this was the sort of country to be enjoyed
leisurely, while a man was afoot. At the top of the rise
he stopped and stared his full. There it was, just as he
remembered it, grander than ever in the gray evening
light. The great limestone mass of Ingleborough
stood out blue against the pallid eastern sky, as fine a
skyline as a man might hope to see; in sweeping lines
the great hill reached from north to south across the
horizon, a sleeping lion of a hill, sloping like a figure
shrouded from head to foot, head to the north, feet to
the south; in the far distance, over the lion's
shoulders Penyghent and Whemside showed in
mauve shadows the distant line of the Pennine Chain.
  As the twilight deepened the wind freshened and
Macdonald set out again at a good swinging pace.
Half an hour's walking brought him to Wenningby ­
a group of stone farmhouses with mullioned
windows. He did not know which was Netherbeck
Farm and he had no intention of visiting Mr. Hoggett
that night, but quite apart from his detective calling,
Macdonald felt a very human curiosity about the
bookseller who had turned farmer.
  It was by chance that Macdonald became aware of
Mr. Hoggett's proximity. He had just passed the last
farmhouse of the group and at the gate of a pasture a
tall man was bending to fasten a gate more securely.
His figure was only half-seen in the gloaming, but
over the gate was a cow with a white patch on her
forehead, and she was bawling lustily while making
every effort to impede the shutting of the gate.

                           41



Behind her, two younger beasts bellowed
encouragement.
  "No, Lady Clare," roared a voice. "I said 'No.' You
have plenty to eat in the pasture."
  "That," said Macdonald to himself, "must be Mr.
Giles Hoggett... Lady Clare... well, she seems a
recalcitrant lass."
  Abreast of the gate, Macdonald ventured: "A fine
clear evening," spoken in the direction of the
disciplinarian.
  A pleasant voice answered him from the shadows:
  "Aye; a good clear evening, but the wind's
freshening. Have you lost your way by any chance?"
  "No. I don't think so. This is Wenningby, isn't it?
My name's Macdonald. Are you Mr. Giles Hoggett?"
  There was a moment of silence. Then Mr. Hoggett
said wonderingly:
  "Did you say Macdonald?"
  "Aye. You wrote to me, and as my business brought
me up north, I thought I'd come and have a word
with you. Will you be at home in the morning?"
  ' "I certainly shall ­ but won't you come in now? My
wife..."
  "Thanks very much, but not now," said Macdonald
gravely. "I'm sure your wife has enough to do to make
her rations go around, and I'm not going to bother
her at suppertime. Tomorrow morning about ten
o'clock? Good. Is that cow really in trouble?"

                           42



  "Not at all," said Mr. Hoggett firmly. "That heifer is
above herself. She thinks the world was made for her
alone, including all the fruits of the earth in due
season. She must learn a sense of proportion. I think
the gate is safe now. I have mended it again."
  "I shall hope to make Lady Clare's closer
acquaintance in the daylight," said Macdonald. "Are
the lesser kine also of undisciplined habits?"
  Mr. Hoggett laughed.
  "My wife says so ­ but they're thriving. Well, I shall
be glad to have a word with you tomorrow, Chief
Inspector. Where are you staying?"
  "At the Green Dragon. Good night, Mr. Hoggett."
  "Good night," replied Mr. Hoggett, and turned
vigorously toward the farmhouse.















                          43



            CHAPTER FOUR


  "Ginner? No, I've never heard the name," said Mr.
Hoggett. Macdonald was sitting by the fire in the
living room of Netherbeck Farm. It had taken no
detective skill to observe that this room, probably the
original kitchen of the old farmhouse, was different
from most farmhouse kitchens. It was used as a
dining room and living room, and its furniture was
good old wood ­ the dresser and "spindle back"
chairs and hard oak table of the Lancashire
farmhouse. They shone. So did everything else in the
room. Macdonald felt relieved that he had wiped his
shoes very thoroughly before entering. There was a
fine log fire burning, for it was a chilly day, and the
chair Macdonald sat in was a good old-fashioned
rocker, but he noticed as he came in that a print of
Holbein's "Duchess of Milan" adorned one wall. It
suited the room, and Macdonald liked it, but he
regarded Mrs. Hoggett rather warily. He hadn't quite
placed her yet; she didn't seem to fit into any
ready-made category.
  "There aren't any Ginners in this part of the world,"
went on Mr. Hoggett, and Macdonald said:

                          44



  "No matter. Now since you've told me all about
your Wenningby Barns problem, and I have a free
week-end, what about letting me see the place? I've
already told you I am not here on duty, so my visit is
not official. I have to make this plain, because we
don't poach. I've no more status here than I should
have fishing in your water without a permit."
  "Yes, I quite follow that," said Mr. Hoggett, and his
wife looked up from her knitting.
  "You were asking about a man named Ginner," she
said. "I've never heard the name, either, but when you
mentioned poaching just now I thought of
something. Giles, there  was someone poaching on
your water in August. I wonder if he broke into the
cottage."
  Mr. Hoggett looked skeptical.
  "I don't think it's very likely, Kate. The man you
saw probably thought he was on the Carnton Anglers'
water. They do make these mistakes."
  Macdonald turned to Mrs.. Hoggett.
  "Can you remember anything special about your
poacher?"
  "He'd got a face I distrusted at once. I don't often
take unreasonable dislikes to people, but the minute I
saw him I knew he was a rotter. I just knew it. He
wasn't a poor man, but he wasn't what I should call
an educated one. He hadn't a north country voice. I
should think he came from the Midlands, and he was
probably something in the commercial traveler line. I

                         45



only suggest that because of his assurance. He was
the type you can't snub."
  Mr. Hoggett suddenly chuckled.
  "Who's making things up now, Kate? You saw a
fellow with a rod who said he wasn't fishing on my
water."
  "...But he was fishing," she protested. "I saw him
make a cast­"
  "All right ­ and could you tell from the way he cast
a fly that he was a commercial traveler from the
Midlands who beats his wife and falsifies the petty
cash? Could you swear by Almighty..."
  "Shut up, Giles, and don't be an ass," she retorted
cheerfully. "The chief inspector will think we're
profane. Take him down to Wenningby Barns and
bring him back in good time for dinner. I'm going to
make an enormous ham omelette, so don't be late."
  Mr. Hoggett was still chuckling as he led
Macdonald toward the brows.
  "My wife took me to task ­ quite reasonably ­ for
not being precise over the matter of evidence. She
said I make things up to suit myself, and I ought to
remember that in a court case I should have to swear
to my facts ­ so I couldn't help getting at her when
the boot was on the other leg."
  "Mrs. Hoggett struck me as a person who has
respect for accuracy," said Macdonald. "She would be
the first to admit that we tend to read evidence so


                             46



that it supports our own preconceived theories. For
instance, you are sure that the potters broke into
your cottage, and you find evidence to support it.
Mrs. Hoggett believes her poaching gentleman was
responsible. I have to remind myself at regular
intervals that I am here on holiday and am not
investigating anything but the countryside ­ and
perhaps you, Mr. Hoggett."
  "Eh?" said Mr. Hoggett.
  "Yes, you," replied Macdonald. "Weren't you once
guilty of playing Rugby football?"
  "Rugger!" gasped Mr. Hoggett. "I thought for a
moment..."
  "Yes. We can all feel like that sometimes. Did you
once play against a Police team in the Home Counties
­ many years ago? At Woodstock, wasn't it?"
  "Guilty," said Mr. Hoggett solemnly. "It was in 1928
­ one of the last games I played."
  "I sympathize. It was one of my last, too. I was
'borrowed' by the Home Counties Police team. I
played Wing-Threequarter."
  "Well, well, well..." said Mr. Hoggett, and the two
stood still and regarded each other with increased
respect.
  "Having settled that, without either of us saying the
world's a small place," went on Macdonald placidly ­
"say if you tell me some more about the other



                             47



inhabitants of Wenningby. Are they all indigenous, so
to speak?"
  "No, not quite," said Mr. Hoggett. "This is the brow,
by the way. I don't advise you to bring a police car
down here. The leading inhabitant of Wenningby, by
seniority in farming, is Richard Blackthorn of Great
Gill. He farms nearly 200 acres. Then Edward
Troutbeck of Wenning Hall, my nearest neighbor,
would be next in line. The Troutbecks have farmed
here for four generations. Gilbert Clafton of
Upperbeck is a young farmer ­ we have just passed
his steading ­ but he is married to Richard
Blackthorn's daughter. These constitute the wisdom
of the inner Chapelry, so to speak. Then there are
four other out-living farms, all held by natives, but in
addition we have some members of the outside
world. There is Mr. Vintner, who is a tenant of a
poorish-looking property on the  Garthmere Road. He
runs a chicken farm, not very successfully I imagine,
but my wife tells me he is quite a competent painter."
  "A suspicious circumstance," said Macdonald, and
Mr. Hoggett agreed simply.
  "I used to think so, but my wife thinks otherwise.
Then there is Mr. Willoughby, the tenant of Mr.
Shand's water. Mr. Shand owns land further down the
river and has land adjoining mine. Mr. Willoughby
leases a cottage which is mine... But there he is."
  They had descended the brow and were walking
along the level toward the cottage in the dales. A


                           48



short, stoutish man, carrying fishing tackle, was
approaching them. Mr. Hoggett greeted him in
friendly tones.
  "Good morning, Mr. Willoughby. Have you been
fishing so early?"
  "Good morning, Mr. Hoggett. I thought of trying
for a fish, though the water's not too good ­ the
river's fallen quickly, but I'm feeling annoyed.
Someone has broken into my fishing hut up in
Chough Close. I'm going to notify the police."
  "I'm sorry to hear that," said Mr. Hoggett. "Has
anything been stolen?"
  "My waders. It's most annoying. Quite
unobtainable today. This is the first time such a
thing's happened. The padlock was wrenched off.
Have you noticed any suspicious characters about,
Mr. Hoggett?"
  Mr. Hoggett stood and scratched his head. He
didn't look at Macdonald, nor did Macdonald look at
him. At length Mr. Hoggett replied:
  "I haven't seen anybody down here, Mr.
Willoughby." He spoke slowly, and the stout man
replied hastily and testily:
  "No? Then I'm going straight to the police. I
consider it to be my duty to do so, and I'm very much
put out about my waders. Perhaps you can tell me the
appropriate officer to consult, Mr. Hoggett."



                                49



  Again Mr. Hoggett scratched his head, Macdonald
with an expressionless face and a straw in his mouth,
was staring toward the river. Mr. Hoggett said:
  "I think Sergeant Cobley's your man, Mr.
Willoughby. His headquarters are at Carnside, but he
lives at Nether Pollock. If you care to use our
telephone, my wife is at home."
  "Thank you, Mr. Hoggett, very kind of you to
suggest. I'll go straight up."
  The stout man bustled off and Mr. Hoggett turned
to Macdonald.
  "I don't know if I acted incorrectly," he began, and
Macdonald laughed.
  "Well, if you did, I'm in it too," he replied. "In my
opinion you were most discreet. This is  not  my
pigeon, it's the sergeant's. What a pity!"
  "Why?" asked Mr. Hoggett.
  "I was enjoying myself," said Macdonald. "I hoped
your cottage affair would turn out to be a good
leg-pull and that I should be asked to fish in your
water. Now it's all up. The local men will have to
investigate and I shall have to behave like a
responsible official who knows his place ­ which isn't
here. In other words, I shall have to report ­ and
Sergeant Cobley will resent my intrusion from the
start."




                            50



  "But look here," said Mr. Hoggett earnestly, "now
you're here, you might as well come in and see the
cottage."
  "...and the bogie; and Jacob's Buttery," added
Macdonald. "All right ­ but the sergeant  will  be
annoyed."

  Mr. Hoggett brought Macdonald back to the farm
just after midday. Mrs. Hoggett, with commendable
reticence, did not worry Macdonald with questions.
She fed him extremely well, with the most
magnificent soufflé omelette Macdonald had seen for
years, followed by an enormous apple pie with thick
cream. It was after they had finished the meal, and
had drawn their chairs around the fire that
Macdonald said:
  "I have enjoyed my morning very much, Mrs.
Hoggett, and I have enjoyed the sort of dinner you
can only get in a farmhouse. I'm only sorry that I've
got to get back to my job, and that your husband has
got to report to Sergeant Cobley that his cottage has
been entered by some unauthorized person. Before I
go, will you look at these photographs and tell me if
you recognize any of them?"
  Mrs. Hoggett took the photographs and sedately
put on her glasses. Macdonald watched her, as she
studied each in turn, laying them carefully on the
table after each had been scrutinized: she was


                         51



leisurely, but not slow. At length she picked one out
and handed it to Macdonald.
  "That is a photograph of the man I saw fishing on
Giles' water some weeks ago. I do not know any of the
others."
  It was Mr. Hoggett who broke into startled speech.
  "Are you sure, Kate? Let me see. What an
extraordinary thing..."
  He seized the photograph and Mrs. Hoggett said
calmly:
  "Put on your specs, Giles, and don't look at it
upside down..."
  By the time Mr. Hoggett had examined the
photograph, he also was of the belief that the face
Mrs. Hoggett had claimed as her poacher's was
familiar to him. His wife took a poor view of his
statement.
  "Could you  swear  you've seen him, Giles? If so,
where?"
  "I'm not certain. Can you swear to him, Kate?"
  "Yes. I can. Anywhere. This is a photograph of the
man I saw just below Jacob's Buttery on August 31st.
I've remembered the date. It was the day the stirks
broke out when you were carting with Richard
Blackthorn in Parson's Intak. I found Nanette in the
dales and Patchey and Kitty in the river."
  Mrs. Hoggett would make a good witness, thought
Macdonald. She only said she was certain of a thing

                           52



when she really  was  certain, and she added chapter
and verse with exemplary clarity. A judge would
appreciate Mrs. Hoggett, meditated the C.I.D. man ­
but the jury would like her husband.
  It was Mr. Hoggett who asked the inevitable
question. For all his north-country forebears, he was
a very human individual and not ashamed to voice
his curiosity.
  "Who is this?" he inquired, flourishing the
photograph.
  "He is named Gordon Ginner," said Macdonald. "I
have been told he once lived in Kendal. I can't tell you
anything more about him now, because I have got to
regularize my position."
  Mrs. Hoggett studied him.
  "Isn't it detective etiquette to pick up evidence in
your spare time?" she enquired. "I should have
thought it was praiseworthy."
  Macdonald could not for the life of him tell if her
question were serious or not.
  "I think you probably know the substance of the
answer to that question, Mrs. Hoggett," he replied. "I
had a consultation with my colleagues in Manchester.
When that was over, I was free to go my own way for
the week-end, but if I intend to carry on as a police
official in this district, it is up to me to get into touch
with my country colleagues. I don't wish to be
regarded as a snooper from London."


                            53



  "Aye," said Mr. Hoggett. "That's sense. I see just
what you mean ­ but I'm sorry your week-end has
been marred."
  "There's one thing about it," chuckled Macdonald.
"My week-end may be prolonged ­ and if so, I'll wet a
line in your water before I'm through."
  He turned again to Mrs. Hoggett.
  "Thank you very much for your hospitality," he
said. "I only hope you won't regret your husband ever
wrote and told me about the theft of the iron dogs."
  Mrs. Hoggett considered a moment.
  "It won't be any use regretting it," she said. "If owt's
amiss, as we say up here, it's got to be looked into."
  "Quite right," agreed Macdonald. "That's the way to
look at it." He paused and then added: "Do you mind
telling me ­ were you born in London?"
  "Yes. I was. Why?"
  Macdonald chuckled.
  "I thought you were," he said, and Mr. Hoggett
scratched his head.
  "I wonder what he means by that?" he inquired ­
but Macdonald did not answer him.
  The chief inspector set out, regretfully, "to
regularize" his own position. Having borrowed Mr.
Hoggett's bike he went to the nearest call box (he was
far too canny to phone from Netherbeck Farm). He
first got in touch with the acting chief constable ­ the
same impetuous gentleman who had been

                           54



instrumental in first bringing him to Lunesdale on
the occasion of old Robert Garth's death.
  "Chief Inspector Macdonald of the C.I.D., sir. You
may remember me..."
  "Macdonald? Indeed! I remember you very well,"
barked the cheerful voice. "I should be glad to see you
again. What is it brings you up north, Chief
Inspector? Are you cooperating again on the
agricultural front? I'm told you showed promise at
the hay time."
  "Evidently nothing escapes you, sir," replied
Macdonald. "I came to Lunesdale for a week-end of
walking ­ and fishing, if I could get it. As it happens
I've had a different sort of bite ­ it concerns a case of
mine and possibly one of yours. In the circumstances
I thought it better to report direct to you."
  "Perfectly correct. Excellent. Now were are you at
the moment, Chief Inspector?"
  "I'm speaking from a call-box on the
Chapelton-Lonsdale road. One of the farmers told me
that Sergeant Cobley was in charge of this particular
area ­ between Garthmere and Wenningby. I should
like a word with him, with your permission."
  "By all means. You had better come over to
Carnton for a consultation. Inspector Bord will be on
duty. The superintendent is away today. He's at the
Assizes. I'll see that messages reach them. Meantime,
do you wish to see me personally ­ or would
tomorrow do?"

                           55



  "Tomorrow would do, sir. I just wanted to notify
you of my presence in your district, and to consult
with your men over points which have come my way."
  "Precisely. Excellent. Quite in order," barked the
deputy official. "Er... let me think. A call-box, you
said. Could you ring back in fifteen minutes' time?"
  "Very good, sir."
  While he waited, Macdonald strolled back along
the road. In a dip, standing back from the road, was a
sorry-looking little stone house, whose flagged roof
sagged despondently. There were a number of shoddy
outbuildings, and some rusty wire and makeshift hen
houses proclaimed that the occupier had once kept a
number of head of poultry. Today, a few dispirited
hens and some moulting ducks were half-heartedly
seeking a living off old cabbage stalks. A tall, lanky
fellow was doing some repairs to a gate which was off
its hinges. As Macdonald drew level a vicious, "Damn
the whole blasted outfit," was uttered as the gate fell
drunkenly askew once more.
  Macdonald said: "Can I lend you a hand? Gates are
awkward things to lift."
  "Thanks. Don't bother. The whole contraption's
rotted through. I think I shall cut it up for firewood.
More use that way."
  "Certainly not a native," pondered Macdonald.
  The voice was an educated voice, but ill-tempered.
The speaker was very lean, of almost boyish build, if
he had straightened his round back, carroty-haired,

                            56



blue-eyed; something about him was like a ferret, but
he lacked alertness. He was slovenly, like his
property, down at heel and none too clean, but not
altogether unlikeable.
  "If you move the gate away altogether, there'll be
nothing to keep the cattle out," said Macdonald.
  "Then let 'em come in. They're welcome. You're a
stranger to these parts, aren't you? I haven't seen your
dial before.
  "I'm a Londoner, but I've friends hereabouts. Are
you the painter someone mentioned to me?"
  "Well ­ I paint. D'you want to buy a poultry farm ­
good will, enclosures, a few fowls and lease of ancient
and picturesque dwelling?"
  "If I did want to buy a poultry farm, I'd rather buy
one where the birds didn't show every sign of
imminent decease. Those hens are in a bad way."
  The sandy fellow laughed, but his laugh was rueful.
  "You're telling me... I ought to wring their necks,
but I'm fed up with it. Hens ought to be easy ­ but
they're not. D'you know how many diseases a hen can
get?"
  "I don't. On the whole I should think painting is
less speculative."
  "It's as easy to starve on. I say, would you like to sit
for me? You've no idea how difficult it is to get
models around here. The farmers are all worth
painting ­ but will they sit for me? No. Too busy."

                           57



  "I'll think about it," said Macdonald, glancing again
at the sagging roof beyond. "Who's your landlord?" he
inquired.
  The sandy fellow did not take the inquiry amiss.
Macdonald knew his type well enough; he'd have
been more at home in the brasserie of the Café
Monico than in this upland solitude.
  "My landlord? Name of Shand. You're wondering
why he doesn't mend that roof. He might if I paid my
rent. It's a vicious circle."
  "I see. Well, I've got to move on. May I come and
see your work one day?"
  "For God's sake do. You're the only person I've
talked to for days. They don't talk in these parts. At
least, not to me."
  Macdonald strolled back to his telephone box.
What on earth had brought a fellow like that to this
place of solitude and toil? A man must work to get a
living from the sour soil of that poor holding.
  ...Hens ought to be easy... "Poor devil," thought
Macdonald, as he lifted the receiver again.









                                 58



             CHAPTER FIVE


  Sergeant Cobley did not go out of his way to make
difficulties. He accepted Macdonald's tactful
explanation of his presence in Lunesdale without
question, and was anxious to hear what the Yard man
had discovered for himself. Macdonald had found
time to pay a call on John Staple in the interval
between telephoning to the chief constable and
meeting the sergeant, and was able to quote that
worthy's opinion that "summat was amiss" in the
dales. Cobley had already received reports from Mr.
Willoughby about the "entering and breaking" of the
fishing hut and Mr. Hoggett had dutifully rung up
and reported that certain items were missing from
Wenningby Barns.
  Cobley said: "Mr. Hoggett is probably right in his
surmise about the potters doing both jobs. I've
notified all stations to look out for them. Oh ­ here's
the inspector."
  Bord, who entered the room at that moment,
turned out to be a tall, fair fellow, lean and sinewy,
with powerful sloping shoulders and very big hands.


                          59



Bord was a north country man all right, and
Macdonald took to him at once. Cobley was
encouraged to repeat his report about the burglarious
doings in the valley, and then Macdonald weighed in.
  "I came up to Manchester to consult about a case
which has been passed on to our department," he
said. "You've probably noted the routine inquiry: a
man named Gordon Ginner disappeared from his
lodgings in Marrington in August. We found he had
rooms in London ­ in Pimlico ­ but he hadn't been
seen there for weeks. It's probable that he is
concerned in the coupon racket which has been
carried on in the wool market. That was where I came
in."
  Bord nodded. "Aye. We noted it ­ but we've
nothing to report up here."
  "By chance, I've happened on a curious piece of
evidence," went on Macdonald. "You know John
Staple, the Garthmere bailiff?"'
  "Aye. A friend of yours, I'm told," said Bord with a
grin which showed his strong white teeth. Macdonald
nodded.
  "Staple's a man I've a great liking for," he said.
"Now you know his friend, Mr. Hoggett? I saw him
today because I was interested in what I heard of the
burglary at his cottage. Admittedly it wasn't my
business, because I wasn't there on duty­"



                           60



  "We won't quarrel about that," said Bord
cheerfully. "What was it you discovered about the
cottage?"
  "Mrs. Hoggett said she'd seen a man poaching on
her husband's water at the end of August, and
suggested he might be the housebreaker. She gave a
good description of him. So good that I showed her a
packet of photographs I'd got in my pocket. She
identified one of them as the poacher ­ this one.
You've seen it in our notification. It's Gordon Ginner.
I should say Mrs. Hoggett is a reliable witness, and
she's prepared to swear to her identification."
  "By gum," murmured Bord, and Cobley said:
  "That's a rum go, that is."
  "Now about the thefts at Wenningby Barns," went
on Macdonald, and proceeded to detail them. "I'll get
you to come down there with me," he added. "I'm in
agreement with John Staple and Mr. Giles Hoggett
that the thefts are suggestive, especially coupled to
the fact that the cottage is close to one of the deepest
pools in the river. In other words, we'd better
investigate Jacob's Buttery and the adjoining reaches.
I say 'we,' but at the moment I've no official standing
in the matter. It remains with you and your chief
constable to decide if you want me here."
  Bord laughed. "Between ourselves, Chief, no need
to be so damned official," he said. "You've come to us
and laid your cards face upwards on the table and I'm
all for co-operation in the Force. If so be as you'd

                          61



come it over us ­ well, I'm a Lancashire man myself
and I don't truckle to Londoners ower-easily ­ but
treat us fair, as you've done, and we've nought against
you. Aye, I'll be glad to work with you. As for our old
man ­ well, he'll be happy enough to have you; we're
still short-handed, and this looks like being a job of
work."
  "It does that," agreed Macdonald, "and what's more
it looks like being a job we could do best together. If
this man Ginner has been up here, your local
knowledge will help to trace him."
  Bord meditated a moment.
  "Aren't you pretty sure where you'll find him?" he
asked.
  "No. I'm not," replied Macdonald. "I think it's long
odds that something has been hidden in the river: the
weights indicate that ­ but why the chain and hook?
My notion would be that the hook's been used as an
anchor, to prevent anything getting adrift. With the
sort of stream you get at that bend of the river twenty
pounds of weight might not be adequate to ensure
that a thing stay put. Also, by means of the chain and
hook you could recover the sunken object if you
wanted to. From what I know of Ginner, he might
well have a lot of papers he'd rather not carry about
with him. That's all surmise of course. Does anything
else suggest itself to you on the evidence we've got at
the moment?"
  The sergeant put a word in:

                          62



  "We don't know that it was the same party broke
into the fishing but and the cottage," he said, "but I
reckon it was. Mr. Willoughby hadn't been down
fishing of late. August was too fine and the river too
low. Seems to me the thief might've looked in the hut
first, to see if he could find what suited his purpose
and then tried the cottage next."
  "That's quite reasonable," assented Macdonald, and
Bord put a word in:
  "There's waders gone from the hut, an old coat,
cap, and creel from the cottage. Seems to me the thief
might well have walked off looking the dead spit of
an old-fashioned angler. Not a bad idea at all. No one
looks twice at a fisherman in Lunesdale."
  "I quite agree," said Macdonald. "Also the waders
and brogues would successfully conceal any
bootprints. I wish we could fix the time at which the
thefts took place. All we know at present is that they
occurred between the time the Hoggetts were last in
the cottage ­ on August 28th they say ­ and
September 15th, when Mr. Hoggett went down there.
Mrs. Hoggett saw Ginner on August 31st, but she did
not go into the cottage that day."
  "We shall have to find out if any of the Wenningby
farmers was down in the dales between those dates,"
said Bord.
  Macdonald nodded agreement. He didn't add that
he'd already made a few extra inquiries himself on
that score. Mr. Hoggett had told him that everybody

                          63



in Wenningby had been busy in the harvest fields
during the first fortnight of September. The only one
of the farmers who had gone down to the dales was
Richard Blackthorn, who had some young beasts
pasturing at the foot of the scarp, some half mile
below Wenningby Barns. Macdonald had had a few
words with Mr. Blackthorn, asking him if he had seen
anyone in the dales on his visits of inspection. The
old farmer eyed Macdonald shrewdly: the leisurely,
independent judicial stare of appraisement which the
C.I.D. man connected with the dalesmen.
  "You're asking me if I saw 'anyone,' " he
commented. "Happen you mean anyone from away."
  "I said anyone," persisted Macdonald, "from away
and from here as well."
  "I shall have to think a bit," said the farmer. "Won't
do for me to go telling you things too hasty like, and
having you running in my neighbors just in case."
  There was a twinkle in the shrewd long-sighted
eyes, and Macdonald put in:
  "I'm from o'wer the Border, Mr. Blackthorn. Hasty
like's not our motto in the Highlands."
  "Eh... but you're from London, too," chuckled the
other. "Happen I saw Bob Fletcher time and again
when I was in the dales. Aye, it's a funny thing,
because he lives across. the river."
  "Then what was he doing the Wenningby side?"
asked Macdonald and the other roared his delight.


                           64



   "He weren't this side. 'Twas his own side he was on,
and we had a crack ower the stream, same as we've
done this dun'-a-many years. That just shows you
mustn't be ower hasty. Now I might ha' seen my
son-in-law down by the river, and happen I saw Mr.
Shand one day afishing in his own waters, all in
order, and John Staple, he came along the river after
one of his heifers. The beasts'll ford the river when it's
low, and Mr. Fletcher, he's got a bull over yonder. Eh!
but I'll have to think this out, Mr. Macdonald. I can't
go making rash statements."
   "That's right. You think it over, Mr. Blackthorn,
and I'll come and ask you again another day."
   "Aye. You give me time, Mr. Macdonald, and I'll
give you a plain answer when I've given my mind to
it."
   So when the inspector said: "We must ask the
farmers," Macdonald felt he was on safe ground when
he said:
   "Aye, and give them time to think about it. I feel I
could do with a bit of time to think things out myself.
In any case, I've got to ring up my own boss and tell
him I've found a job to do up here, if you decide you
want cooperation. Now what about this business of
investigating Jacob's Buttery? We shall need a drag."
   "Aye, and a boat, too, and that's not so easy as it
sounds, Chief. You can't scull a craft down the Lune
like you can on the Thames; there's too many rapids.
We shall have to cart a boat by road on the south side

                           65



of the river and get it down to the water over the
holm land. Quite a job that'll be."
  The inspector scratched his chin.
  "Whatever it be that's chained in Jacob's Buttery,
Chief, it's been there for some days, hasn't it? D'you
reckon it can bide till Monday?"
  "I reckon it can," agreed Macdonald.
  The plan suited the chief inspector well. There
were quite a number of things he would like to do on
his own account on Sunday. True, he had said that
the Sabbath was a day when no man should work, but
following his own devices in Lunesdale did not seem
oppressively like work to Macdonald. He concluded
his talk with Bord by saying:
  "All this is on the assumption that your chief
constable sees fit to apply to C.O. for cooperation."
  "He'll see fit all right," said Bord. "Anyway, you're
here."

  As soon as Macdonald had left his colleague he
found a convenient call-box and telephoned through
to Mr. Hoggett.
  "Macdonald speaking. Do you think I could stay at
the cottage in the dales for the week-end?"
  "Aye. Come when you like. I'll go down and light a
fire and see there's some food. When will you come?"
  "You've got a car, haven't you? I'll see, you get some
extra petrol if you use any for me. Could you come

                           66



and pick me up at the Carnton-Borwick cross-road in
an hour's time."
  "Aye. I'll be there."
  "Thanks very much ­ and I'd be obliged if you
wouldn't go to the cottage again before I join you."
  "Right. I'll be at the crossroad in an hour's time."
  Mr. Hoggett was waiting in his car when
Macdonald arrived, and when he had got in the C.I.D.
man said:
  "It's like this, Hoggett. It's a safe bet that there have
been some illicit doings in your valley. What's the
nature of them I don't know, but I want to avoid any
show of police activity at present if I can. If anyone in
these parts is watching out, the sight of your car isn't
going to interest them nearly as much as the sight of
a police outfit. Then I suppose you do lend the
cottage to your friends occasionally?"
  "Aye. That's very sound," said Mr. Hoggett. "I think
it'd be a good idea if I stayed at the cottage with you.
It's quite a usual happening for me to have a friend or
two down for fishing."
  "Thanks very much," said Macdonald, though he
chuckled a bit to himself. Mr. Hoggett wanted to be
on the spot while his own private mystery was being
investigated. In most cases, the Scotland Yard man
would have refused the offer of company, both
tactfully and firmly, but he had a feeling that Giles
Hoggett might be very useful. He had that same
quality which (unbeknown to himself) had endeared

                           67



Macdonald to the haymakers. He'd got the sense to
do as he was told. Perhaps Macdonald felt confidence
in his companion because he remembered him on the
Rugby field. Hoggett had been a very good forward,
not only because he was fast, but because he was
cunning. He had shown himself a past master of the
wiles which induced his opponent to think he was
going to do just what he wasn't going to do. Looking
at the long-headed fellow beside him, Macdonald
summed the matter up with a Scot's reticence which
Mr. Hoggett would have approved.
  "I might do worse than have him there."
  "I've got some food in my haversack at the back,"
said Mr. Hoggett. "It'd be best if we put the car away
at the farm as I always do and then we can walk from
here. By the way, my Wenningby neighbors know
who you are, but they won't mention you to anybody
else. One thing about a small community like ours is
that you do know your neighbors."
  "Yes. That must be very pleasant ­ but don't you
ever miss Camford and the book shop?"
  "No. I'm doing what I always wanted to do and I
want to go on doing it more than ever," replied Giles
Hoggett. "Here we are. Now if you can take the milk
and that basket of plums... good. I like cooking. I've
got the cottage keys... I'll just go and get my rods to
add a little verisimilitude..."
  By the time he was walking down the brow with
Mr. Hoggett, Macdonald not only looked the part of

                            68



an angler on holiday ­ he felt like it, too. It was quite
a long time since he had carried such an assortment
of goods, and it was evident that Mr. Hoggett made
no conservative estimates concerning the amount of
food two men could put away in a week-end.
  Arrived at the cottage, Mr. Hoggett took off his
coat and looked business-like. He nodded toward the
hearth, which Macdonald had already examined that
morning.
  "Are you through with that? We shall want a fire."
  "Of course. You carry on with the fire. I've got a
sample of the ashes and I'll just go around with an
insufflator. I'm hoping for some nice portable
fingerprints ­ on cups and plates and so forth. I've
got a copy of Ginner's prints with me, so we can soon
check up."
  "Good. I've brought some extra crocks and tools
and a couple of saucepans so that I needn't touch
those in here," said Mr. Hoggett. "My wife and I were
very careful not to touch anything here, just in case...
Do you care for mushroom soup? ­ and I've got
sausages and tomatoes and plenty of eggs and a plum
pie my wife sent... and there's the cream and a jar of
honey..."
  Macdonald went through the cottage in a very
businesslike way. He had soon got evidence that
Gordon Ginner had been in the cottage; his
finger-prints showed up plainly in two places: on an
old cigarette tin which had been left on a shelf in the

                           69



recess by the chimney piece (a beautiful clear print
this one) and on the upright of the door. Macdonald
was interested to find that there were very few
fingerprints traceable; most of the surfaces had been
wiped, so that his powder only showed up a series of
smudges, and the old cups and plates and mugs on
the dresser had also been wiped. The C.I.D. man
made a thorough job of it, using his camera and
flashlight outfit. He concluded that the housebreaker
(or housebreakers) had not been upstairs in the
cottage, for none of the furniture or other surfaces
had been wiped in either bedrooms or on the landing.
A thin film of dust lay undisturbed on chests and
tables, and these, together with washing bowls and
ewers, showed a complication of fingerprints, many
of them children's prints.
  It was growing dusk by the time Macdonald had
finished his examination, and Giles Hoggett called to
him asking if he should close shutters and curtains
before lighting the lamps. Macdonald agreed, and
having put away his gear, he came back into the
living room of the cottage conscious that he was
pleasantly hungry. A magnificent wood fire blazed up
the open chimney, and Mr. Hoggett was ready with
bowls of mushroom soup, white a vast mixed grill
waited sizzling on the hearth as second course, with
plum pie with thick cream to follow.
  Macdonald sat down with his feet stretched out to
the blaze and took his bowl of soup. They consumed
their supper in companionable silence, and at length,

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having piled up the plates and pans in the adjoining
small kitchen, they lighted their pipes and returned
to the fire.
  "Man, you're a grand cook," said Macdonald
gratefully. "Now say if we get a few points cleared up
before we both sleep the sleep of repletion. How
many routes are there by which a man could arrive at
this place?"
  Giles Hoggett took his time over answering and
then he said:
  "It's like this, Macdonald. It depends on the
weather conditions. You want to know about routes
to the cottage at the end of August, the time when my
wife saw the poacher?"
  "Aye. That's about it."
  "Route one you know. Down the brow, the way we
came. Route two, by the river bank upstream from
Garthmere bridge. It's a rough path, and not many
would come that way because the path's overgrown
and difficult to follow. It runs through the woods and
it hasn't been kept clear of recent years. Route three,
by the river bank walking downstream from the
Knabb ­ that's a farm by the river a couple of miles to
the east. Route four, by the right of way cross Tom
Profert's land ­ the Middle Upfield. Route five, by
fording the river from the southern bank. You can do
that when the river's low."
  "If a man wanted to reach the cottage unobserved,
which route would be best?"

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   Mr. Hoggett scratched his head thoughtfully.
   "Not by the brow, because he'd have to walk
through Wenningby, and though you might not think
it, hardly any stranger passed unobserved by
somebody. Not by Knabb ­ that's a tidy-sized farm,
and it's close to the river. Not by Garthmere ­ there's
too many folk working in the fields. If I wanted to
reach the dales unobserved, I'd leave the main road
by the Upfields' turning. There are three Upfields ­
Near, Middle and Far Upfield, and two farmhouses to
each. It's lonely land and they're small farms. You can
follow the track through Middle Upfield down to the
woods above the river and turn upstream by a path
through the woods. Forty minutes' walking from the
main road would bring you to these dales, and the
track's marked on the Ordnance Survey. I'll show it to
you tomorrow if you like."
   "Good." Macdonald yawned comfortably and
stretched his long limbs. "D'you care for swimming?"
   "Aye. I like swimming well enough ­ but the river
will be cold with all the water that's coming down the
hills."
   "Need you remind me of that?" said Macdonald,
leaning closer to the fire. "When you bathe from here,
where do you take the first plunge?"
   "Our bathing pool's a couple of hundred yards
downstream by the big willow tree. You can get a
good swim from there to Jacob's Buttery, over the
rapids."

                          72



  "Losh keeps! Rapids, are there? Well, I'm going in
for a dip as soon as the sun's up the morn's morn."
  "I'd better come in with you to see that you don't
drown," said Giles Hoggett. "It'll be a thought chilly...
but maybe you'll enjoy it."
  "Maybe I shan't," groaned Macdonald.
























                           73



                CHAPTER SIX


  Macdonald, warm, well-fed, and just comfortably
tired, bent to knock his pipe out on the hearth, and as
he looked up he became aware that Giles Hoggett was
listening intently, staring at the door as tough he
could see through it.
  "There's someone moving out yonder," he said, and
listened again. Macdonald listened, too, but he could
hear nothing: the silence seemed unbroken ­ and the
silence at Wenningby Barns was profound.
Nevertheless Giles Hoggett was listening so that his
long ears seemed to be more pointed in the effort of
hearing.
  "He stood still for a bit; now he's moving toward
us," he said. "It's odd... no one ever comes down here
after dark."
  Macdonald could hear the footsteps now; they were
coming steadily nearer, until they stopped close at
hand.
  "He's opened the gate. He's coming in," said Mr.
Hoggett, and turned to the door of the cottage.


                          74



   "Wait and see if he knocks," said Macdonald
quickly. "If he does, keep behind the door as you
open it."
   "Aye," said Mr. Hoggett sagaciously.
   A second later there was a drumming on the door.
Obedient to Macdonald's instruction, Giles Hoggett
kept well behind the door as he opened it.
   "Who's there?" he asked.
   "Is that you Mr. Hoggett? It's Barton Shand. Can I
come in?"
   "Of course. Come in, Mr. Shand. We don't often
have visitors after dark at Wenningby Barns ­ but it's
a fine evening. I see the moon's quite bright."
   Giles Hoggett's pleasant voice was as serene as if he
were greeting an expected guest, but the visitor
looked far from serene.
   "Shand... the adjoining landowner," registered
Macdonald's mind as the two men turned toward the
fire.
   Mr. Shand was a tall fellow, a thought taller than
Giles Hoggett (who just missed six feet). He had a fine
head of white hair and a rather heavy, fleshy face with
deep-set eyes; he was the sort of man who could have
been described as "of commanding presence," for he
was well-poised and held his head with a touch of
arrogance that was not unbecoming. Macdonald, of
all men the last to be impressed by "a commanding
presence," noted that Mr. Shand's figure had a


                           75



tendency to obesity in the under waist, and that his
cheeks sagged a little under his fine dark eyes.
Hoggett was less impressive at first glance, but
Macdonald approved of his lank northern spareness,
his big shoulders and the way he stood on his feet, as
though there was always a spring behind that easy
stance. For no known reason, and rather unkindly,
Macdonald thought that Hoggett could tackle the
bigger man with every prospect of success ­ but
Hoggett was firmly linked with the Rugger field in
Macdonald's mind. The conversation which ensued,
however, held no hint of bellicosity.
  "I'm sorry to butt in on you like this, Hoggett," said
Barton Shand, speaking more easily now, though he
was obviously out of breath. "The fact is I saw the
light through the cracks in your shutters and I
wondered if there was a house breaker on the
premises. I just thought I'd make sure nothing was
amiss."
  "Very good of you, Mr. Shand. I'm grateful for your
thoughtfulness. We're just down here for the
week-end, but the cottage is often empty. Won't you
sit down a while?"
  "Thanks. I should be glad of a sit. Running's not so
much in my line these days. I've been having the
deuce of a time, Mr. Hoggett."
  Mr. Shand sat down heavily in the big wooden
armchair pushed forward for him, and ran a hand
through his ruffled white locks. Macdonald subsided


                          76



silently into his chair and Giles Hoggett sat on the
edge of an ancient Victorian couch.
  Macdonald noticed that Mr. Shand had recently
had a tumble; his good raincoat was still thick with
wet mud and slime.
  "I've been very much put out by this business of
thieving down here," went on Shand. "I went into see
Willoughby this evening, and he told me about his
hut being broken open. He also said the police had
told him you'd had burglars down here."
  "Well, that's putting it a bit strongly," said Giles
Hoggett mildly. "I did report to the police that some
unauthorized person had been in here and lighted a
fire and taken some food ­ but burglary seems rather
a strong word to use."
  "Can you define the term burglary for me?"
demanded the other in rather testy accents.
  "Certainly," said Mr. Hoggett, promptly and
urbanely. "A burglar is one who breaks into a house
by night, that is, between the hours of nine and six,
with a felonious intent. I have no idea what time the
unknown visitor entered this cottage. He did not
break in ­ so far as I can ascertain. I do not know if
his intent were felonious."
  "Come, come, that's mere quibbling, Hoggett.
However, I should be interested to learn if you have
any ideas as to the identity of your... er...
unauthorized entrant."


                          77



  "Why, yes, I've got an idea of my own, but as my
wife very properly reminds me, I have no evidence,"
replied Giles Hoggett. "I believe it's the potters."
  "I don't agree with you. I don't agree with you at
all,"' said Shand peremptorily. "I have some evidence
I can put forward myself, but it's nothing to do with
the potters. Far from it. I had a word with the police
about these accusations against the potters. Far from
having been proven, these accusations were all very
wide of the mark. I know nothing at all about the
potters, but the police have satisfied themselves that
the Golds were improperly accused. Now I have a
very different suggestion to make ­ especially after
my experiences this evening. I have a tenant who,
speaking in confidence, is a very untrustworthy
fellow. It won't tax your intelligence very far to know
who I mean, Hoggett. That fellow at Thorpe Intak ­
Vintner by name."
  "Aye. The artist," replied Hoggett. "My wife tells me
he's a very competent painter."
  "A fig for that!" retorted Mr. Shand. "I can tell you
he's very far from being a responsible tenant. Now
when I left Willoughby's cottage this evening I ran my
car along to the top of the brow in order to turn, and
I saw a man disappearing down the brow. I turned
my headlights on, and there was no mistaking who it
was. It was Anthony Vintner. I can swear to that all
right. Now can you suggest any good reason why
Anthony Vintner should be skulking down the brow
after dark, Hoggett?"

                            78



  "Yes, Mr. Shand," replied the imperturbable Giles.
"I can suggest a number of reasons. The man's an
artist. He may well have been studying the effect of
moonlight on the flood water. It's really very
beautiful, Mr. Shand. He may even have been
composing poetry ­ about the moonlight."
  Giles turned to Macdonald with a gentle naiveté
which nearly reduced the C.I.D. man to an outbreak
of the mirth which had been welling up in him.
  "There are some lines of Sir Walter Scott's about
moonlight, Jock, perhaps you can recall them," said
Giles.
  Macdonald played up.

  "If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
  Go visit it by the pale moonlight,
  For the gay beams of gladsome day
  Gild but to flout the ruins gray."

  The C.I.D. man rolled out the lines as a Highland
minstrel might have pronounced them and had the
pleasure of seeing the muscles twitching round
Hoggett's close shut lips. Mr. Shand was obviously
annoyed by this levity and he cut in:
  "Vintner  may  write poetry and he  may  paint
pictures, but neither supposition explains why he
first ran away from me and later tripped me up. I
called to him when I first saw him, and instead of

                          79



replying, he hurried on down the brow. I followed
him. I was convinced he was up to no good. It's
infernally dark on the brow, and just at the steepest
corner I was tripped up by a stick thrust between my
ankles. I took a proper toss ­ it winded me for the
moment."
  "Hard lines!" said Giles Hoggett. "I'm very sorry
you had a tumble, Mr. Shand, but can you be certain
you were tripped up? The ground is very treacherous
on the brow and there are some fallen branches
which came down in the gale. It's very easy to trip on
the brow after dark."
  "I am quite certain I was tripped up," retorted Mr.
Shand, "and I'm also certain that Vintner went on
ahead of me along the dales. That's why I came to
investigate when I saw your light. Now I think you
should consider this matter seriously, Hoggett. Here
is this fellow Vintner. He hasn't the money to pay his
rent; his chicken farm is derelict and he's to all
intents and purposes bankrupt. I wouldn't put it
beyond him to do a little safe thieving. Now this
cottage of yours ­ it's deserted for weeks at a time. He
may well have thought it worth while to break in and
see if there were anything of value here."
  "But there isn't," said Giles Hoggett. "At least,
nothing of value in terms of money."
  "Are you quite sure?" said Shand.
  He got up and stretched a hand toward the shelves
in the recess beside the chimney.

                          80



  "Those old books, for instance, Hoggett. I
remember looking at them one day when you asked
me to come in and shelter a while ­ last Spring it
would have been.. I was surprised at the time that you
risked leaving them down here... This one, for
instance. Fine old binding, tut... tut... mildewed.
Really, Hoggett, not fair to a good book to leave it
against these damp walls. Damp plays the devil with
books, y'know."
  Macdonald was more diverted than ever. It seemed
that Mr. Shand did not know Giles Hoggett's vocation
before he had turned farmer. Giles remained
deceptively mild; he even looked politely grateful for
the information.
  "Damp?" he said gently, taking the ancient little
volume in his hand. "I'm afraid it's been damp for a
long time, Mr. Shand. . . 1837... That's quite a time
ago. H'm... that'd be my grandfather Ramsden. Yes,
he was born in 1825. He went to Wenningby
Grammar School. We had a Grammar School here as
late as 1870, Mr. Shand. Perhaps the book is damp,
but it's been here a long time, and I doubt if anybody
wants a text book of English grammar written in the
Latin tongue."
  Macdonald took the book from Giles Hoggett and
read the doggerel written on the title page:

  "John Ramsden is my name,
  England is my nation

                          81



  Wenningby's my dwelling place,
  And Heaven my destination."
                May 6, 1837.

  It was a nice little book, and Macdonald was
surprised when he realized that an impulse flashed
through his mind to put the mouldy little volume into
his own pocket. He hastily returned it to Giles
Hoggett and looked across at Mr. Shand, who was
fussing over the other books on the shelves.
  "H'm... classics... Well, Hoggett, I should have
these valued. You never know... Have you got them
catalogued? No? So you may have lost something
valuable. Vintner's just the sort of chap who'd spot a
valuable old book."
  Giles Hoggett sat by his own fireside, his
stockinged feet stretched comfortably to the blaze ­
he had forgotten to put his slippers on again when he
went to the door. His hands were thrust well into the
baggy pockets of his ancient tweed breeches, his hair
was a bit tousled and his face not quite clean ­ he'd
cooked the supper over an open fire ­ but Macdonald
always recognized innate dignity when he saw it, and
without moving a muscle Giles Hoggett achieved real
dignity at that moment.
  "I have no catalogue of the books save that in my
own memory, Mr. Shand. I grew up with those books,
just where they are now. I know every one of them. I
know also that not one of them would be priced at

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higher than sixpence by any bookseller of repute.
They have, as I told you, no monetary value, but they
have value to me. I know them ­ and they are all
there. Nevertheless I thank you for your concern."
  Mr. Shand looked slightly nonplused. Macdonald,
who was a good judge of men, summed up the
situation pretty accurately. Barton Shand was a
land-owner ­ quite a sizeable landowner. He could
probably have bought up Giles Hoggett's acres ­ if he
had the chance ­ without missing the money thus
spent. He wanted to put Hoggett in his place; he
wanted to do it very much, to condescend to a simple
country neighbor and show him his ignorance, but
his intention was not working out according to plan.
  "Very well, have it your own way, Hoggett, but I
have my own opinion on the matter and I'm not
likely to change it." He got up, and then added: "If
there is nothing of value in this cottage, how do you
account for the fact that it was... er... entered?"
  "I said nothing of monetary value, Mr. Shand.
There was food and fuel and shelter ­ all valuable
commodities on occasion. There were some old coats.
These things may have been valuable to itinerant
hucksters. I don't think they would even tempt a man
like Vintner. He may be broke, but I don't think he's
hungry, and his clothes are rather better than my
own."




                           83



  "I deprecate this readiness to make a scapegoat of
the potters. It seems to me an unjustified and
unworthy attitude."
  "I respect you for what you say, Mr. Shand. I feel
rather the same about Vintner. He's a fool with
poultry and he hasn't the sense of a louse over
housekeeping, but he's not a bad chap taking him all
round."
  "Perhaps you might think otherwise if he were a
tenant of your, Hoggett."
  "Oh, I shouldn't have been so unwise as to let him
the tenancy of a rural property," said Giles genially.
"Now can I see you up the brow, Mr. Shand? It is, as
you say, rough going, and it's dark under the trees."
  "No thank you, no thank you. I can find my own
way. I wish you good night."
  Mr. Shand went to the door and made the best exit
he could, observing that the moon was still bright.
  Giles Hoggett closed the door and returned to the
fireside. "The man's an ass in some ways, but he's not
a bad landlord," he said. "I've known worse."
  "What did you think of his explanation of his
arrival here?"
  "Oh, I think he was telling the truth ­ he's a
truthful man under the pompous stuff. He probably
did see Vintner. The latter has been painting the
valley in moonlight. Kate saw his picture. She said it



                             84



was 'arbtirary' and advised me not to buy it. Do you
know what an 'arbitrary' painting is?"
  "I think so, Hoggett. And do you imagine that
Vintner tripped up his landlord?"
  "No ­ though I wouldn't put it beyond him. He's
got his own sense of humor. I've no doubt Shand
tripped over a broken branch and thought he was
being attacked."
  Macdonald stretched himself thoughtfully.
  "Would you care for a walk, Hoggett? I heard you
mention the moonlight over the flood water."
  "Aye; it's a fine sight."
  Without further comment Giles reached for his
shoes and started pulling them on.
  "If you take the small lamp upstairs and set it on
the landing, we can put this one out before we open
the door," he observed.
  "You're a thoughtful chap," said Macdonald. "If I
open the bedroom doors there'll be enough light
shining through to give the right impression."
  "Aye," said Mr. Hoggett.
  The harvest moon was just past the full, and it
seemed to sail overhead in a sea of luminous
iridescence, due to the vaporous clouds in the high
steely vault of the sky.
  Giles Hoggett closed the cottage door quietly
behind them, and the two men stood still by common
consent until their eyes were accustomed to the

                               85



delicate black and white of the world outside. The air
was cold and very still, and at first the silence seemed
unbroken. It took Macdonald some seconds to attune
his ears to the distant sounds of the night; the gurgle
of the becks, the call of a beast in the holm-land far
across the river, the faint jarring cry of a night bird,
and another queer sound closer at hand, which he
realized was the munching of a beast in Richard
Blackthorn's pasture.
  Giles Hoggett, as certain as a cat on his feet in the
shadows of the cottage, preceded Macdonald to the
gate and took a few steps forward before he touched
the other's arm.
  "Shand's car. He's got his headlights on."
  Hoggett's low deep voice seemed to be but an echo
of the murmuring becks in Macdonald's ear. Glancing
upwards toward the top of the scarp he could see the
glow of the headlights for a second or two and then
the faint sound of jarring gears put in by an
impatient hand.
  "He's taken the turning by the church," murmured
Hoggett.
  Macdonald, keen of ear and keen of vision,
admitted the other chap had got him beaten in both
respects. Here, in his own valley, under the night sky,
the dalesman heard and saw more quickly than the
London detective.
  "There's someone moving yonder ­ in the dales
downstream..." said Hoggett.

                          86



  He turned to the right, westwards, walking parallel
with the river, and Macdonald followed. On his right
was the wooded scarp, sloping steeply up from the
valley meadows; to his left some ancient low thorns
were between him and the main stream. Macdonald
fell behind a little, deliberately. Hoggett ahead of him
knew the ground and could risk moving forward,
loping, as it were, at a surprising speed, considering
he made no sound. Macdonald felt the water over his
shoes as he stepped through a small beck and
perceived that he had passed the shadowing thorns
and was now on the open dales.
  The moonlight shone white over the wet fog grass
and made paths of radiance in the flood water, and
the willows which fringed the river bank stood out
black, their trunks rising from the water now; to his
right the woods reached in impenetrable blackness to
the level of the shining dales.
  Macdonald had time for a fleeting
acknowledgment of the beauty of the moonlit valley;
surely any painter might wish to study the black and
white of trees and shining water ­ and then he forgot
the loveliness about him as he realized that Hoggett
had halted and stood immobile for a second before
he squatted low on the sodden ground. Macdonald
followed suit, and a second later he saw a sight suited
to the fairy black and white of flooded, moonlit
Lunesdale.
  A figure was running over the grass, and for a
second Macdonald thought he was bewitched. The

                           87



slight figure was clad only in singlet and running
shorts, it seemed, white in the moonlight, and the
slender limbs shone white too, while the head shone
pale gold ­ a pixie figure in the cold moonlight.
Hoggett seemed to have no feelings about fairies.
Suddenly he was off, running at an astonishing speed,
flat out, a long angular blackness, splashing through
the flood water like a steeplechaser.
  Macdonald was not slow off the mark himself.
With an absurd feeling of exhilaration he raced after
the other, and he admitted afterwards that he wasn't
really chasing the eldritch figure of the fugitive ­ he
was racing Hoggett. "Damn the fellow... he's older
than I am," was the reaction of a distinguished
member of the C.I.D. as he sent the flood water flying
under the moon.
  Macdonald always believed that he gained several
yards on the straight, but it was Hoggett who brought
the chase to an end. He tackled in the proper spirit
and the proper place, and next second the air was
lively with vituperation by no means fairy-like.
  "Well, I'm very sorry, but you shouldn't have run
away," panted Mr. Hoggett. "If you behave like a
lunatic you must expect to be treated as one."
  He had staggered to his feet, gripping his sodden
captive. This was no sprite; Macdonald could see him
now. It was the poultry-farming painter. Clad in a
manner more suitable for the tropics than for
Lunesdale on a perishing cold evening in the


                          88



back-end, Anthony Vintner's teeth were chattering as
he swore and went on swearing.
  "Now stop it," said Mr. Hoggett, shaking him
vigorously. "Your coat's on the old thorns yonder," he
continued severely. "We'd better get it, or you'll be
getting pneumonia ­ and dying like those hens of
yours."
  Suddenly Vintner laughed, and his laughter echoed
across the valley in peal after peal of mirth.
  "Damn and blast you, it's funny all the same," he
gasped. "I thought you were my landlord. I meant to
ditch him by the fence. All right, where's my coat?
Don't pinch, confound you. I'm not running away
from  you, Mr. Giles Hoggett. Have you got a hot
toddy in that cottage of yours?"
  "No, I haven't ­ and I'd say you don't need one,"
retorted Hoggett. "You're a rotten runner anyway.
You can have a cup of tea and get dry while you're
explaining why I shouldn't get you certified."

  They found Anthony Vintner's coat just where Mr.
Hoggett had said they would find it ­ hanging on the
old thorns. Macdonald admitted (very handsomely)
that he hadn't noticed it as he passed, and Giles
Hoggett said modestly, "Well, you see I know the
shape of those trees pretty well."
  "Yes," agreed Macdonald. "You're several tricks up
this evening ­ but I'll diddle you yet."


                           89



  They trooped into the cottage, and Giles Hoggett
got busy with the fire and kettle, while Vintner
crouched over the blaze and Macdonald kicked off
his sodden shoes, studying the painter the while. His
slim build, white skin and carroty gold hair explained
why he had looked so sprite-like in the moonlight ­
but his hair was wet, trickles of water still dripping
from the wiry curls which defied the wet.
  Giles Hoggett made the tea and gave each a large
steaming cup.
  "Can I have some sugar in mine, please?" asked
Vintner with his irrepressible grin.
  While he fetched the sugar-basin, Hoggett found
an opportunity by dumb play to ask Macdonald
which of them should open the inquisition, and
Macdonald signalled "You."
  Hoggett gave Vintner the sugar, and then suddenly
barked out:
  "What have you been doing down here?"
  The voice was quite unexpected; in place of his
usual gentle tones, Giles Hoggett barked out the
question like a severe schoolmaster accusing a
schoolboy in the tuck cupboard.
  "What the deuce has it got to do with you?"
demanded Vintner. "You can't say I was trespassing ­
the river bank's got a path along it, hasn't it? ­ and if I
was trespassing, I've done no damage."



                            90



  "Now you listen to me," said Mr. Hoggett. "There
have been some very improper things happening here
of late ­ at last two cases of theft and an alleged one
of assault. If you can't give any explanation of your
presence down here at night, I shall consider it my
duty to detain you and hand you over to the police.
Now I come to think of it, there have been a number
of unexplained thefts since you arrived at Thorpe
Intak."
  "Damn it all, Hoggett, you don't really think I've
been thieving, do you?"
  Vintner spoke in tones of injured innocence, but
Macdonald realized the underlying tone of
uneasiness.
  "I've asked you what you were doing down here,"
persisted Mr. Hoggett, "and I'm waiting for an
answer."
  "I came to study the valley in the moonlight. I'm
painting an impression of it."
  "Very good. Why did you need to go in the river in
order to study the moonlight? Why did you run away
when you saw me? Why didn't you answer Mr. Shand
when he called to you? Why did you trip him up at
the bottom of the brow and then run away?
Remembering that certain thefts have been reported
to the police, I think they'll want to know the answer
to the questions I have just put."



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  "If I choose to paddle in order to study the
moonlight it's nobody's business by my own,"
retorted Vintner.
  "You weren't paddling ­ you wouldn't have got
your head wet paddling. Why did you run away when
you saw me?"
  "I told you. I thought you were Shand. He's a
damned awful consequential bully and I hoped to see
him take a purler in the flood water."
  Macdonald put a word in at last, meditatively.
  "I'm not a painter myself, and I can't draw a thing,
but how any man trained to use his eyes could
mistake Mr. Hoggett's figure for Mr. Shand's I can't
imagine. Not even in the moonlight. If Mr. Shand can
run at all ­ which I doubt ­ he wouldn't look like Mr.
Hoggett while he was doing it."
  Anthony Vintner turned and studied Macdonald
with his impish light eyes.
  "Hallo, Scotty. It's you is it ­ the chap with the chin.
You're going to sit for me one day, remember."
  "Don't prevaricate," said Mr. Hoggett. "If Mr. Shand
brings an action for assault you won't be improving
your chances of acquittal by what you've just been
saying."
  "Hi, steady on," protested Vintner. "You said I
tripped him up on the brow. I didn't. He tripped
himself up. He fell over a branch. I wasn't on the
brow. When I realized he'd got out of his car I


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climbed over on the bank and came down the fields. I
don't like Mr. Shand ­ but I didn't trip him up. Can I
have a cigarette?"
  He reached out and took a tin which lay on the
bookshelves beside the chimney, and Mr. Hoggett
pulled a depressed looking packet of Stars out of his
pocket and held it out:
  "That tin hasn't had any cigarettes in it since 1939,"
he said. "You can have one of these. Well, I can tell
the sergeant that you came down to the river to study
the moonlight over the flood water, that you took
your coat off and hung it on a tree, that you got your
head wet while you were paddling, and that you ran
away from me because you hoped to trip up Mr.
Shand. I think Sergeant Cobley will be interested."
  Vintner stirred restlessly in his chair.
  "Look here, you're not really going to try to get me
into trouble with the cops, are you? I think it's
damned unfair. I haven't done you any harm and I
don't believe you really think I've stolen anything.
What's been stolen, anyway?"
  "Various items from the dales," responded Giles
Hoggett. "I'm very upset about it. The folk hereabouts
are honest folk and I'm going to see that the thieving
is put a stop to. I'm not satisfied with the story you've
told, Vintner, and I advise you to think it over. I'll
give you until midday tomorrow to make up you
mind."
  "Make it up about what?"

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  "About telling the truth. I know enough already to
know that you haven't told the truth so far."
  He turned to Macdonald.
  "Ought we to keep him here?" he inquired.
  Macdonald shook his head.
  "I think not. It's probable that Mr. Vintner will
decide for himself that he'd be wiser to be more
accurate next time he's questioned."
  "Aye, let him think it over." Giles Hoggett sounded
very solemn. "You can go now," he said, "but I shall
be seeing you again shortly."
  Anthony Vintner looked both puzzled and uneasy;
he looked from one to the other of the big solemn
fellows and then shrugged his shoulders.
  "All right. Thanks for the cup of tea and the warm,
Mr. Hoggett. You're not being fair, which is a pity,
because you're the nicest chap in a day's march
hereabouts. I know you think I'm bats. I don't mind
that ­ but the other stuff's a bit thick."
  "You've only yourself to blame," said Giles Hoggett,
and his voice was once again the low kindly voice
which was his norm. Vintner glanced quickly at him
and then made for the door.
  "Good night," he said. "Sorry you think I'm a thief ­
because I'm not."




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           CHAPTER SEVEN


  After the door had shut behind the carroty-headed
painter Hoggett and Macdonald turned to one
another with the same impulse ­ to grin.
  "Aye," said Macdonald, "You did fine, Hoggett.
That hoary chestnut about 'knowing more than you
think' ­ it impressed even me, and I've heard it pretty
often. The point is ­ do you?"
  "No," said Giles Hoggett truthfully, stirring the
teapot vigorously. "What did you make of him,
Macdonald?"
  "Well, I'd say he's a bit of a twister. The point that
interested me was that the chap was afraid. When you
first copped him his shivers weren't all due to being
chilly ­ and he was very relieved to find it was you
who'd copped him. Now what was he afraid of?
Certainly not of Shand. He didn't care a fig for
Shand."
  "I'd say you're right there." Giles Hogget sat
forward, warming his toes at the fire, deep in thought.
"He'd been in the river," he said. "He left his coat on
the thorn trees and walked across the dales. He must

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have hung his shorts and vest on the willow tree,
because they weren't soaked. I knew he'd been in the
river, because his skin was so cold. What would he
have been in the river for? I know he's a queer bird,
but I don't think he took a dip just for pleasure. At
the same time I shouldn't have said he was a
scoundrel. He's mischievous, maybe, but not a real
bad 'un."
  He looked up at Macdonald.
   "Did you notice he pocketed that empty cigarette
tin?" he asked.
  Macdonald nodded. "Yes, I noticed. I hope to find
out the reason for that some time. Meantime, before
we both fall asleep, tell me a bit about those two other
worthies I met today ­ Shand and Willoughby.
Shand's not a countryman, is he?"
  "Not what I call a countryman. His people came
from Barrow and his father had an iron foundry and
made a lot of money. He spent some of it buying land
in this district and his son Barton Shand bought more
land. He only comes here occasionally. He has a big
place in the Peak district. He's a business man really,
but he fancies himself as a landowner."
  "Iron foundry. H'm... Is he married?"
  "Aye, and he's got a son. They say clogs to clogs in
three generations. They think that'll be the way of it."
  "Do you? Where's the son?"



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  "In London, I believe. He escaped military service
on account of poor physique. He's a poor sort of
bloke; as near weak-witted as makes no difference.
Shand's not a bad sort. He's honest, and I'd say he's
truthful, and he's quite a considerate landlord if his
tenants behave themselves. He's got a very nice wife ­
Kate's met her and says she's a great improvement on
her husband. Incidentally he's a very good husband,
deeply devoted to his wife."
  "Does Mrs. Shand come up here with her
husband?"
  "Not now. She used to, but I believe her health is
pretty poor. Shand doesn't really care much about
Lunesdale, but he's a conscientious landlord in his
own way and he comes up here at intervals to keep an
eye on his property; then he's a fisherman, of course.
But what I think he really enjoys is the feeling that
he's a 'Squire' ­ although we don't have Squires up
here."
  "I was wondering if Mr. Shand could help us later
on ­ if we need help ­ by giving evidence of any folk
he has noted in the valley."
  "He'd be willing enough to help; but I don't think
he'd be much use. He was away for ten days from the
end of August onwards. In any case, Shand doesn't
really notice much. He's too busy concentrating on
his own impressiveness. He's no judge of character,
otherwise he'd never have let Thorpe Intak to
Anthony Vintner."


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  "What about Mr. Willoughby?"
  "Oh, he's a very decent chap. He's a wool merchant,
from Leeds. He's a good fisherman, a good tenant and
a pleasant neighbor. He rents a cottage of mine just
above the beck, and he's Shand's fishing tenant."
  "One last question before I let you go to sleep: Is
your suspicion of the potters based on. real evidence
or on prejudice?"
  Giles Hoggett took his time over answering, and
the answer when it came was perfectly truthful.
  "On prejudice; but it's worth bearing this in mind.
We're slow in forming judgments hereabouts, and we
don't often analyze the reason behind our judgments,
but there generally is a reason somewhere. Leave me
out of it and consider the opinion of men like
Richard Blackthorn and John Staple. They have a very
poor opinion of the Golds and both these men are
sound judges of character. I admit that I have
inherited a prejudice from my parents; they both
distrusted nomads of any kind. But that's only my
opinion, and as Kate will tell you, once I'm
prejudiced, I'm unreasonable. Richard's a very fair
man. You have a crack with him sometime."
  "Aye, that's sound advice," said Macdonald, "but
can't you tell me a bit more about these potters
yourself?"
  A fresh gleam of interest lit up Mr. Hoggett's face,
and Macdonald realized his companion was willing


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enough to talk now he made it clear that he didn't
want his opinions to be regarded as objective fact.
  "You know, Macdonald, the potters are an
interesting phenomenon. It's a wonder some bright
young student hasn't done a sociological survey of
them. In an ordered society they are among the very
few people who remain free. They are free, just like
birds." Mr. Hoggett scratched his head and went on
with more certainty as his ideas developed.
  "Robins have a fixed territory which they keep to
themselves and from which they exclude others:
similarly these Golds have a territory of their own
which they work, say from Carnton up the valley as
far as Chapleton-Lonsdale. I'd describe them as the
economic parasites for this district which they have
somehow claimed as their own."
  Mr. Hoggett glanced at Macdonald as though
wondering whether to proceed, but the latter
reassured him
  "Go on. You're just beginning to be interesting.
Develop your thesis and translate it into terms of
everyday life."
  "Meaning ordinary plain Lunesdale," agreed
Hoggett. "I admit the potters have their uses; they act
as scavengers, so to speak, for the farmers. They take
rabbit skins, mole skins, old iron, slag bags, and
anything else that's accumulating at a farm, and they
pay some sort of price for them. They'll buy rabbits
which have been snared, and save the farmer the

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bother of taking them into market. They come along
before Christmas and they'll pay an agreed price to be
allowed to cut the berried holly. Oh, they have their
uses ­ but farmers don't really trust them and they
keep their eyes on them as far as they can. Even so,
we have a feeling there must be a lot of things the
potters pick up on the quiet. The upshot is there's a
sort of irritated tolerance for them, and the irritation
comes to its height when something of value is
missing and the tendency is to blame the loss on to
the potters."
  Hoggett paused again and then added:
  "All the same, there have always been potters about
the countryside; they're traditional and so they're
tolerated. I expect even if I had the power to clear
them out of the district I shouldn't exercise it. You
see, they're part of the landscape." He concluded
apologetically: "I don't suppose all this has helped
you much ­ you try talking to Richard about them."
  "Thanks, I will. Next, can you tell me of anybody
who knows the Golds as individuals and whose word
could be relied on?"
  "Aye. There's my cousin George. He's a doctor in
Ingleforth. He's doctored the Gold family, and he's a
very truthful man. George makes allowances ­ but he
doesn't live right in the country."
  Here Giles Hoggett allowed himself the colossal
yawn he had been suppressing heroically.


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  "All right. Go to bed," chuckled Macdonald. "That
was a good run we had."
  "Aye. You'd better leave your socks to dry by the
fire. Kate's very particular about damp socks. I'll
wake you in good time for a swim. I've got to be up at
the farm for milking by half-past seven. Good night."
  "Good night ­ and thank you for a good evening,"
said Macdonald.

  The morn broke with a promise of perfect weather.
When Macdonald and Hoggett went outside, the sky
was still warm hued with the gold of dawn, but
swathes of white mist floated down the valley. On the
dales the mist was thick to shoulder height, but
Macdonald found his head occasionally emerged
above the white wraiths, so that he could see the
willow trees floating above the mist as though
trunkless.
  It was very cold and Giles Hoggett looked chilly
and glum. They raced together over the cold
drenched grass, took off their coats by the big willow
and plunged in. The chill of the water was
breathtaking but Macdonald trudged downstream
with a vigor which soon set his circulation going. In a
minute or so he was in the rapids and found that all
he had to do was to keep straight and get his head up
at intervals to breathe. The river had fallen in the
night, and when he got past the rapids Macdonald
found the stream was not bank high as it had been

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the previous night. He called over his shoulder: "You
all right?" and heard Hoggett's answering voice. Then
he turned toward the bank in the stretch known as
Jacob's Buttery, and plunged to test the depth of the
water.
  When he came up he had to fight the stream to get
into the bank and found it a tough business ­ the
water was still coming down at a terrific pace.
Hoggett went past Macdonald on the current as the
latter managed to grip an overhanging branch
leaning out from the bank, and Macdonald had a
breather and turned to see what Hoggett was doing.
He, knowing the ways of this river, was getting in
toward the bank by means of an eddy which saved
him from battling with the stream as Macdonald had
done.
  "He doesn't want any saving," thought the Scot, and
dived down into the deep water by the steep bank.
  He found that the roots of the willow had been
scoured clean by the current, and he soon found
something else. Giles Hoggett's sack was there, and
the chain, and the iron dogs. The laden sack was
chained to the willow roots and lodged tight in a
recess where the river had undercut the bank.
  Macdonald surfaced again and plunged into
midstream ­ he wanted to swim for a bit in the fresh
air and wash away the feeling of that clammy sack.
He found Hoggett's eddy and swam inshore easily,
where the other was searching the bank.


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  "You can get out. I've found your sack," said the
C.I.D. man.
  Hoggett scrambled out with Macdonald close
behind him.
  "I want my coat. That river's damned cold," said
Macdonald.
  They ran over the grass, providing astonishment
and diversion for Richard Blackthorn's bullocks, who
ran after them with the inquisitiveness of their kind.
Hoggett asked no questions, but as he seized the
rough towel he had brought out with him, Macdonald
saw the unspoken question in the other's eyes.
  "Aye. As you guessed for yourself. A grim business.
I'm sorry."
  "Thanks," was all that Giles Hoggett said, and then
added:
  "I've made some coffee. It's in the pot ­ and it'll be
hot."
  They wasted no more words but raced back across
the dales. The sun was just getting through the mist,
and the pale gleams felt warm to the chilled limbs of
the two swimmers.
  A fine fire was roaring up the chimney and the two
men got dressed before the comfort of the heat.
Hoggett poured out the coffee and they were both
glad of its scalding fragrance. It was not until then
that Macdonald said:



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  "I think I'd better stay down here. Will you
telephone to Inspector Bord and ask him to join me
here immediately? It's only seven o'clock now but the
earlier the better. We oughtn't to attract much
attention early on a Sunday morning. Tell him to
send the Mortuary Van and stretcher on the south
side of the river. You'll know the right place for them
to pull up. There is no need of carrying a stretcher up
to the brow."
  "Right," replied Hoggett.
  Again he asked no question, and it was for that
very reason Macdonald went on:
  "It's a man's body; not a woman's. I knew from the
size of his shoes. I can't tell you anything else."
  "Since there  is  a body there, I'd rather it were a
man's," said Hoggett simply. "You'll want some
breakfast. You know where things are. I'll be getting
on up."
  He paused at the door, and added: "Was that why
Vintner was frightened? He must have got out of the
river just about there."
  Hoggett nodded, and turned away. Macdonald put
down a solid breakfast in quick time; he knew that no
man does a better day's work for an empty stomach.
Then he went out again into the sunlit dales and
walked along beside the river. He could see for a long
way, up and down the peaceful valley: not a soul was
in sight and he thought how often the dales must be


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solitary like this. The chances against meeting anyone
here must be considerable.
  Having assured himself that no one was in the
vicinity, he began to go over the ground they had
covered last evening. It was too wet to have held any
traces, for the ground was still waterlogged, but he
remembered where he had been when he first spotted
Vintner running towards the woods, and he
squelched methodically back and forth searching the
ground. He hardly expected to find anything, but it
was almost instinctive to search, and as he walked he
put together the few facts which had emerged in this
first unofficial period of detection. Gordon Ginner
had been seen in the valley with a fishing rod on
August 31st. Mr. Hoggett had found traces of wheels
(probably the bogie) between the cottage and the
river on September 15th: he had also found a torn
fragment of curtain material caught on the thorns.
Mr. Willoughby's hut had been broken into. The
cottage had been entered by somebody who had used
the key.
  It was at this stage in his thoughts that Macdonald
found a tin. It was lying in the grass some twenty
yards from where Vintner had been running last
night. It was a cylindrical tin, still bright, though
patches of rust were beginning to show on it.
Macdonald picked it up gingerly by its edges and
observed that solder had been used to fasten the lid
on. The tin weighed some ounces, but Macdonald
thought from its size it would probably float in water.

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He had no idea if it was in any way connected with
his case, but decided to carry it back to the cottage
and examine it there. He remembered the odd fact
that Vintner had appropriated the old cigarette tin
which had yielded Ginner's prints.

  Macdonald carried his tin back to the cottage, and
when he emerged again, he heard footsteps coming
down the brow. He turned and met Bord and a young
constable, both of them looking quite out of place in
the dappled light and shade of the rough path. Navy
blue and white metal buttons looked odd there,
pondered Macdonald ­ and then he remembered that
he hadn't shaved and that his own shoes and flannel
bags showed very recent contact with flood water and
mud and slime. The C.I.D. man probably looked a bit
odd to his spruce colleagues of the County force.

  It was full moon before Macdonald knew all that
could be learnt from examination of the contents of
the sack which had been moored to the recess in the
river bank. It contained Gordon Ginner's body, and
Ginner had been dead for a good many days. He had
been killed by one heavy blow on the back of his
head, a blow which had smashed through the skull as
a coal-hammer smashes a lump of coal.
  "Well, it's probable he didn't know anything about
it, anyway," said the Police Surgeon who first


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examined the body. "It was as quick as shooting
him..."
  This disposal of the body had been very careful. It
was fully clad, in a nondescript tweed suit and brown
brogued shoes, and the limbs had been lashed
together with salmon line. The sack containing the
body was tied round again and again with cord
(clothesline), and the iron dogs had been skilfully
attached to the cord with salmon line. The sack had
been chained to the willow roots in one of the only
stretches in the river where the scarp of the bank was
never uncovered, even when the river was at its
lowest.
  Bord watched Macdonald during his examination:
together the two men considered the knots which had
secured the cord and the salmon line, and it was Bord
who said:
  "Those are sailors' knots. The chap who did this
has probably been at sea at some time."
  "Not of necessity," replied Macdonald. "Sailors'
knots are used almost universally. Firemen use them.
The Civil Defense men ­ in London at any rate ­ were
taught to make nearly all these knots during their
training ­ the firemen taught them. Then scaffolders
use knots to secure their scaffold poles. Packers in
certain industries use them, such as clothes balers.
The knots used here would be known to a great many
types of artisan."



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  They went carefully through the pockets of the
clothes in the sack, but found nothing. The pockets
had been emptied, tailors' marks cut from the clothes,
laundry marks erased from the underclothes.
  Macdonald considered all this and then said:
  "In the ordinary course of events, the body would
not have been found for months, perhaps not for
years. The only way of finding it was by diving in
toward the bank. Very few people bathe in the river.
The Hoggetts and their friends swim in the summer,
but they wouldn't have gone bathing again this year.
By the time the body had been found, taking all
probabilities into account, it should have been
unidentifiable."
  Bord nodded.
  "That's quite true. We've got you to thank for the
promptness of the discovery."
  "Oh, no, you haven't. You've got to thank Giles
Hoggett. If it hadn't been that he was an observant
man ­ and a very shrewd one ­ I shouldn't have done
anything about it."
  "I should never have put him down as a man who
was particularly observant," mused Bord. "He looks
rather a slow fellow. You were saying just now that
the Hoggetts wouldn't have gone bathing again this
year. It's equally probable that the cottage wouldn't
have been used again this year, either ­ in which case
Mr. Hoggett wouldn't have noticed the loss of his iron
dogs and salmon lines until after the winter, by which

                         108



time he might not have remembered anything about
them. Don't you think it all points to the murderer
being a local character?"
  "Yes, at first glance it does ­ but we've got to
remember that Ginner was seen in the valley. He isn't
a local, not of recent years, anyway. Whet was he
doing in Wenningby dales, why did he ever go inside
the cottage? While the obvious reading is that a native
of these parts committed this crime, it's worth
remembering that someone 'from away,' as Hoggett
says, may have got to know this lonely stretch of
river, and thought it was an ideal place to commit a
crime without fear of observation. There's a lot of
work to be done before we can risk any
generalization on the matter. Meantime we've got to
consider the Inquest ­ and the less information that's
published, the better. Identity not being in doubt,
we'd better get it deferred for a bit."
  Bord nodded. He was thinking deeply:
  "I'm thinking about that question of yours: why did
Ginner ever come to Wenningby? He left his lodgings
in the middle of August, of his own free will,
apparently. Your evidence shows that he meet some
of his friends a day or two after he'd left home."
  Macdonald nodded, and Bord went on:
  "Do you think he and his pals had tumbled to it
that the police were on to their coupon racket?"
  "Yes. They'd realized that all right."


                             109



  "Very well. Ginner cleared out, and he'd have
looked around for some place where he could lie low.
One of your witnesses testified that Ginner had lived
in Kendal at some time. You put his age at forty-five.
Assuming that he got to know Lunesdale as a young
man, he might have known of that cottage in the
dales then. It has been kept as a holiday cottage by
the Hoggetts for years, and in winter it was seldom
inhabited. Is it possible that Ginner thought he might
have lain low there for a bit without being noticed?"
  "Yes, I should say it was, because Ginner was a
townsman. Townsfolk never realize how observant
countrymen are. No native of the valley would make
the mistake of thinking he could live in that cottage
for very long without being noticed. Although the
farmers don't often come down to the dales, they do
come regularly to inspect their beasts ­ and someone
would have noticed something."
  "Yes, that's true. We want to find out when Ginner
came to Lunesdale, and where he stayed before he
came to the cottage. It's not going to be easy, because
you see we have been watching out for him since we
got your notification."
  "He was seen in the dales with a fishing rod on
August 31st. It's probable he got some sort of permit
for fishing, because a man who knows he's wanted by
the police doesn't risk carrying fishing tackle without
a permit of some kind. I must talk to Hoggett. He
knows all the ins and outs of the fishing rights; and
he knows Lunesdale as only a native can. It's from

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him and the other farmers I shall get the information
I need most."
  "Well, good luck to you. You'll find you can't hurry
them."
  "I know that, but at least they're sure of what they
do  know ­ and they know much more than most
townsmen realize."























                        111



           CHAPTER EIGHT


  It was late that same afternoon that Macdonald
reached Thorpe Intak. It was a small holding
consisting of rough pasture reclaimed from the falls,
and it was such poor land that even the optimists of
the War Agricultural Committee had not suggested
ploughing any of it. Ten of the fifteen acres was
leased to Mr. Strongways of Farfell, who grazed sheep
on the scrubby fell side. Of the remaining five acres,
two seemed to be in possession of a donkey and a
goat, both the property of Anthony Vintner, whose
henhouses straggled forlornly over the fields
immediately around his dwelling. Macdonald lifted
back the gate, which still leaned drunkenly from
broken sockets. As he walked over the sour grass
toward the house, he found himself leading a
procession; two hens, one of them almost bald, three
ducks, and a goose in a bad way followed him
hopefully; then the goat joined in.
  Macdonald went and knocked on the door of the
house, but got no answer. Trying the handle and
finding the door open he went in and found himself
in a kitchen which was like a domestic representation

                          112



of chaos. Dirty plates, pans, cups and saucepans
disputed possession of floor and table space with
painting and modeling materials and empty cans.
The fire in the range was out, but the range was still
warm.
  Macdonald went to the room door and called:
  "Anyone at home?" He got no answer and found
the door opened directly into what was now a studio.
Canvases stood stacked everywhere. On the easel was
a study which Macdonald recognized easily enough.
It was the picture of moonlight over the river valley
which Mrs. Hoggett had described as "arbitrary." The
adjective was a just one, inasmuch as the picture was
composed in a deliberate series of conventional
planes, but Macdonald found it beautiful. Somehow
he forgave the painter for the squalor of his kitchen
in looking at that cold vision of white light over the
flood water.
  Rather regretfully turning his back on the easel,
Macdonald glanced at the canvases tacked around the
walls. Anthony Vintner was a portrait painter of
something more than competence. Here, unfinished,
were portraits of half the inhabitants of Wenningby.
Richard Blackthorn was there, with his jutting nose
and far-sighted eyes. Giles Hoggett's long face and
gray eyes stared studiously into Macdonald's own,
and Mr. Shand's black eyes and white hair were
treated with the wicked skill of the caricaturist.
Couldn't the chap market his work, pondered
Macdonald. He was skillful enough ­ and then, as he

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turned a canvas away from the wall he got a real
surprise. This was a townsman's face, a pale, crafty,
smiling, unpleasant fellow, with a leering mouth and
a sly stare ­ and the face was the face of Gordon
Ginner.

  A noise in the kitchen made Macdonald jump for
the door; it sounded as though all the piled crockery
and cans had cascaded suddenly on to the stone floor,
and then followed a silly surprised sound as the
tremulous goat expressed the emotion which had
overcome her as her hopeful nose had caused the
landslide of kitchen utensils.
  "Ba ba-ba-be-bee-e," she bleated, and was answered
by a human voice.
  "Ba-ba to you with knobs on, confound you! It may
be utility, but I will not have goats in the kitchen. Get
out, Belinda. I know you're hungry, you poor old fool,
but you can't eat tin cans."
  Macdonald, standing by the door, said
sympathetically, "Why not love her some mangolds
or potatoes? You can get those easily enough."
  "Good God!" said the painter feebly. "You didn't
bring any in that car, did you? It's Hoggett's car; I felt
hopeful when I saw it. He's a very decent bloke is
Hoggett. The trouble here is that there's something
wrong with the pasture; if it makes a goat sick it must
be pretty bad. Mrs. Hoggett said it might be because
she'd eaten the rhododendron bush ­ Belinda I mean

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­ or else the yew berries. I'd no idea what a lot
poisonous stuff grew in a place like this. Have you
come to sit? I haven't got canvas, but I could start a
study on the wall."
  "No, I haven't come to sit. I've come to talk. Shall
we go in the studio?"
  "Studio? Sounds good. I'll draw the bolt to
discourage Belinda, although it doesn't really matter.
She's smashed everything that was left. God, what a
muck!"
  With a shrug of his shoulders, Anthony Vintner
turned his back on the representation of chaos and
accompanied Macdonald into the further room.
  "Not got a fag on you, have you? The fact is I'm
broke. I haven't a bean left." He pulled out the
pockets of his trousers and shook them: "Not even a
fag-end," he observed
  Macdonald offered a packet of Players and lighted
Vintner's. Then he said:
  "My name's Macdonald. I am an officer of the
Criminal Investigation Department, and I am here on
duty. I am going to ask you certain questions. You
have not got to answer them, but if you refuse to I
may have to take you into custody. That being so, it's
my duty to warn you that anything you say may be
used as evidence."
  Anthony Vintner sat down suddenly on a backless
chair as though his legs would no longer hold him.


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  "I thought something like this would happen," he
said. "I've been dreaming of it... someone knocking
at the door to ask questions. Do you know that
picture of the 'Scapegoat'? Holman Hunt's, and damn'
clever whatever they say about the pre-Raphaelites. I
feel just like that, stupid, bewildered, hurt... you
know the look on that beast's face. I know you think
I'm as guilty as hell, although I don't even know what
you're here for. I'm not. I've never done a thing to
hurt anybody and I always make a mess of everything
and get left to hold the baby. What's it all about?"
  Macdonald pointed to the painting of Ginner and
asked:
  "Who is that?"
  Vintner replied: "About him, is it? I'm not
surprised. He's a dirty dog."
  "Who is he?"
  "Name of Baring. Thomas Harcourt Baring. I met
him in a Morecambe pub. Very chatty. Said he was
looking for a peaceful place to doss down in while he
wrote a book. I told him he could come here if he
liked to muck in with me. A pound a week, share and
share alike. He stayed a week ­ and that was a week
too long. When he left he took my notecase and the
last packet of fags, damn him."
  "Why didn't you report it to the police?"
  Anthony Vintner stared at Macdonald. "Haven't
you any imagination?" he asked. "What d'you think


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I'm here for? Or do you always hound us down
again?"
  "You've been in prison? Well, we don't hound you
down. I didn't know anything about you. I'm here for
two reasons first, because you went swimming in
Jacob's Buttery last night, second because the body of
your Thomas Harcourt Baring was taken out of they
river close to where you were swimming last night."
  "Oh, God... It gets worse every time. It happened at
school first. I was accused of pinching and expelled.
Give a dog a bad name. It's gone on. I've always been
landed with the blame. I'm a born fool, that's why. I
thought I should be all right here, right away from
anybody. Then I was so damned hard-up. Those
ruddy hens began to die ­ and when Baring offered
me rent I thought it was a god-send... And he's got
done in. He would. That puts the lid on it. I'm done.
You know that theory about certain sorts of events
always coming to meet certain types of people? It's
true. I'm one of those blokes who attract disaster ­
and sordid disaster at that."
  "I know that's a weak man's philosophy," replied
Macdonald. "I've listened to you. Now you can listen
to me. If you've done nothing to break the law you've
nothing to fear from me. You've everything to gain by
being frank, because it's as much my job to protect
the honest citizen as to apprehend the rogue. Get that
into your head and show a little spunk. I can't help
you if you can't try to help yourself. You say you've
done nothing against the law. Very well, answer my

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questions truthfully. What were you doing in the
river last night?"
  Vintner hooked across at the canvas on the easel:
  "You may not believe me, but it's true I went down
there to see the moonlight, I walked from here, past
Hoggett's place, and the world looked beautiful
enough to make a man believe in the goodness of
God. Somehow I began to hope again, to think it was
worth trying. Then, just as I turned down the brow I
heard a car, and then that beast Shand turned his
headlights on and yelled out to know what I was
doing. That spoiled it all. I hate Shand, he's a
hectoring bully. I climbed over on to what they call
the bank ­ the fields which slope down to the river,
and I heard him go crashing down the brow like an
elephant. He came a purler at the turn and I laughed
like hell. I thought he'd go back, and I waited a little
and saw him go into the cotage. Then it was all quiet
again and I went on into the dales. You saw it ­ the
moonlight over the flood."
  "Aye. I saw it."
  Macdonald's voice was quiet, but something in it
seemed to encourage Vintner to go on.
  "I felt a little mad. It was perfection. This place gets
you somehow, even when you're hungry. I took my
coat off, wondering if I dared risk a swim. I knew it'd
be cold, but I like swimming. I walked on by the bank
and thought of all sorts of things. I wondered if I
could drown. It'd have been so easy last night ­ but I

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swim too well for that. Then I decided I would go in
the river, however cold it was. I took my vest and
pants off and went in by the big willow. Then I saw a
tin. It was tucked between two branches and it shone.
I remembered I'd seen Baring playing about with a tin
when he thought I wasn't looking and I had a crazy
idea he might have hidden my money. I got the tin,
and then I wondered if he'd hidden anything else."
  He broke off, and Macdonald sat silent.
  "I dived down by the bank," said Vintner, and then
seemed unable to go on. "Well ­ you know. I climbed
out, and then, just as I'd got my vest on, I realized
there was someone else there and I thought of
Shand."
  "How did you know there was someone else there?"
  "Because of the bullocks, I couldn't hear anything,
but the beasts had turned facing the wind and were
standing with their noses up. I knew they'd scented
somebody ­ so I just ran. I can't tell you why, but I
ran for the woods... it was dark under the trees. Then
Hoggett came after me. Of course I knew it wasn't
Shand running: I didn't know who it was, but it
seemed like an avenging fury ­ he can run like hell,
can't he? I was glad when he caught me. I'm not afraid
of Hoggett; he's a good chap."
  "Then why didn't you tell him there and then what
you must have known to be true? You touched that
sack­"


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  "Yes, I touched it... If it'd been you, you might
have told, but not me. You'd have thought ­ what
you're thinking now."
  Vintner shivered and then burst out in a tumult of
words:
  "How could I tell? I'm a gaol bird, a man who's been
quodded for fraud. How could I say, 'There's a corpse
in a sack under the bank, chaps. I don't know how it
got there. I was just having a swim and I found it by
chance.' Just having a swim at midnight, with a frost
over the grass and the water as cold as the Arctic...
Oh, yes, likely. I know by experience everybody
always believes the worst of me... If it'd been Hoggett
by himself I might have told him, but not two of you.
Not you. I thought you were a lawyer, you look like
one, and I've always hated lawyers."
  "You'd have had a better chance of being believed
if you'd told us then and there," said Macdonald.
"Here's another question for you to answer: why did
you take an empty cigarette tin from Hoggett's
cottage last night?"
  "Cigarette tin?" Vintner stared. "What does that
matter? I believe I did pick up an old tin, I wanted
one to keep my own cigarettes in ­ when I've got any.
Everything gets damp here if you don't keep it in tins.
Look in that cupboard. If I keep a pair of shoes in
there for a week it goes mouldy."
  "How did you happen on this place? Had you been
here before?"

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  "Not here exactly. I stayed at Chapelton-Lonsdale
years ago. An old uncle of mine came and looked me
up after I came out of quod. He offered me £500 to try
and settle down and make a living, a decent old boy.
It was he who suggested poultry. I jumped at it.
Seemed to me I could start again somewhere where
nobody knew me. The old boy paid for me to spend a
few months with a poultry farmer to learn the ropes,
and told me to look out for some place which was
fairly cheap. I came up to Lonsdale and fossicked
around until I found this place. Of course I ought to
have realized there was something wrong about it.
It'd never have been empty if the land was any good ­
but I didn't think of that. It was cheap, so I took it
and bought some old hen-houses and some stock and
thought I was going to get on a treat ­ but you see.
  "Yes, I see." Macdonald encouraged Vintner to go
on talking, because he wanted to get to know him.
"Did it occur to you to disinfect the old hen-houses?"
he asked.
  Vintner shrugged his shoulders.
  "Not until the hens started dying. Then I
remembered... I suppose I bought the diseases with
the hen-houses. Damn."
  "Can't you market those paintings? They're good."
  "You try it. It's not so easy. They fall between two
stools. They're not bad enough to sell easily for
pretty-pretties and not good enough to get on the line
in the big shows."

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  He got up and stood before the painting on the
easel.
  "If you like it, will you take it?" he asked. "I'd be
glad to think someone liked it. I suppose you're going
to run me in?"
  "No. I'm not going to run you in. I've no evidence
that you've done anything against the law, though I
tell you frankly you made a mistake in not telling
what you must have realized last night when you
touched that sack. Also I warn you not to try to bolt.
You've got to stop here."
  "I shouldn't get very far, should I? You can't bolt
without any money."
  Macdonald looked at the man's tallowy face ­ it
was almost green as he faced the cold northern light.
  "When did you have a meal last?"
  Vintner stared back at the C.I.D. man.
  "God knows when I had a real meal. I can't
remember I got some bread and cheese in Carnton
just now, and some tea. I did a deal with a chap at
some dirty pub. I sold him my petrol lighter and he
let me have some food. The bother is that I haven't
any matches now."
  Macdonald turned to the kitchen door.
  "You'd better light that fire and make some tea.
Perhaps it'll restore your wits. You need something."
  It was Macdonald who got the range lighted. There
was plenty of wood and the kettle boiled quickly over

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the crackling sticks. Anthony Vintner just stared.
Macdonald knew that stare: the man was half-starved:
on top of that he had had a shock which had knocked
him edgeways. Macdonald doubted very much if
Vintner were quite as much the injured innocent as
he made out, but he was obviously in need of a meal
and of a chance to pull himself together. Macdonald
looked around for a receptacle in which to put the
tins and broken crocks: he saw an empty sack ­ and
decided against it. He then found a large zinc basin
and piled the debris into it, while Vintner still sat
with a puzzled stare.
  "Here you are ­ take these and dump them
wherever you have a dump," said the C.I.D. man, and
Vintner obeyed like a child. When he came back the
kitchen table at least was cleared.
  "I wish to God I was neat and handy like you," said
Vintner, and Macdonald replied:
  "I don't know what's the masculine of slut, unless
it's Vintner. No man needs to make a pigsty of a
decent kitchen. Have you another teapot ­ or not?"
  Bemusedly the painter opened a cupboard and
found some more crocks ­ very much crocks, and
washed them at the sink as he was bidden.
Macdonald found the tea, made it in the cracked pot,
and cut the loaf.
  "Sit down and eat a meal and try to behave as
though you'd got some wits," he said, and Anthony
Vintner sat down at the kitchen table and began to

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eat like a starving man. Macdonald poured himself
out some tea, lighted his pipe and sat by the fire,
pondering deeply. At last he turned to Vintner.
  "Now you can answer some more questions ­ and
the more truthfully you answer, the better for you,"
he said.
  They went on talking until dusk softened the
mullioned windows: question and answer, question
and answer. After a pause, Macdonald turned and
looked hard at Anthony Vintner's pallid face. His eyes
ware shut, and he was fast asleep, slumped down on
the kitchen chair. The man was so exhausted he had
fallen asleep almost, as he talked.
  Macdonald saw to it that the range was shut down,
and then he went outside, closed the door firmly, and
then drove Belinda and the donkey into the old
pasture and tied up the ancient bed-end that did duty
as a gate.
  Macdonald was not quite sure what to make of
Anthony Vintner, but he didn't like the idea of the
goat and the donkey finishing the remains of the
bread and cheese on the kitchen table.
  Just as he was trying to secure the drunken gate
Macdonald saw a car approaching along the lonely
road ­ a good, opulent-looking, well-cared-for car. It
slowed down and pulled up just ahead of Giles
Hoggett's less prosperous-looking vehicle, and
Macdonald recognized the driver with a feeling of
amusement. It was Mr. Barton Shand, who had

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wanted to instruct Mr. Hoggett about the value of old
books in Wenningby Barns. Macdonald quickly
schooled his expression to one of official gravity. He
and Giles Hoggett had been free to indulge in
flippancy last night ­ but it seemed rather a long time
ago.
  Mr. Shand got out of his car and walked back
toward the chief inspector with a frowning, troubled
face.
  "Good day. Am I right in believing that I speak to
an official of the Criminal Investigation Department?"
  "Yes, sir. My name is Macdonald, and I am here on
duty. Last evening, when I saw you in Mr. Hoggett's
cottage I was off duty, so far as official proceedings
were concerned."
  "We need not discuss that, Chief Inspector,"
rejoined the other tartly, "though I should like to
make it clear that what I said then was not spoken in
jest. I gather that the police now have reasons for a
serious investigation in this valley."
  "That is quite true, sir," rejoined Macdonald,
"though I should be interested to know how you came
by that information."
  "It seems not improbable to me that the whole of
Lunesdale is aware of it," retorted Mr. Shand. "The
police van on the Caton road and the presence of
police officers and the nature of their burden this
morning was plain enough for all to see."


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  "Forgive me if I challenge that statement, sir. Some
care was taken to avoid undue obviousness, if I may
put it that way. I know that you, for instance, were
not on the Caton road this morning, and I ask you
again how you came by your information."
  "If you used your eyes, Inspector, you would have
noticed that that stretch of road, river, and land can
be observed from the fells on the south side of the
river. I own some land on that side, and during my
brief holidays here I take a gun with me for some
rough shooting ­ rabbits, hares, wild duck ­ anything
is welcome as an addition to rations in a town these
days."
  "Yes. I see," replied Macdonald readily. "As you say
a Londoner is slow to observe what is plain to the
countryman. I am always ready to acknowledge my
indebtedness to those who help my shortcomings in
that respect. Mr. Hoggett, for instance, has been most
helpful."
  "An excellent fellow," rejoined Mr. Shand, "and well
versed in local lore. But obtuse, Chief Inspector,
obtuse. However, you do not wish for my views on
that matter. I should, however, like to ask you for
certain information if you are able to disclose it. You
have, I assume, just come from seeing my tenant here
at Thorpe Intak. I am much troubled in my mind
about him. You can see the state into which this
holding has fallen. I want to get rid of him and put in
another tenant. My reason for coming here today was
to see him and to tell him so. I intended to let him off

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his arrears of rent, provided he moves out
immediately ­ and I consider that that is a very
generous offer."
  "I don't know much about rural tenures myself,
sir," rejoined Macdonald, "so I can't offer an opinion
on that matter but I would ask you to defer your
interview for the time being."
  "For what reason, Inspector?"
  "First, because I want Vintner just where he is until
I know a little more about him. Next, I think if you
evicted him now ­ or attempted to do so ­ he would
probably cut his throat. He is just at the stage when
any additional difficulties would bowl him over.
Whether Vintner was connected with the crimes I am
investigating I am unable to say, but I think he may
be able to produce some useful information if he's
carefully handled."
  "Humph. How do you know he won't bolt?"
  "I don't think he would get very far. I am having
the roads watched ­ and Vintner is no fellsman."
  Mr. Shand frowned.
  "It's very annoying," he said. "I wanted to get this
matter settled before I returned home. My home is in
Derbyshire, and I only come here for visits to keep an
eye on my property."
  "If you could make it convenient to stay here a few
days longer, sir, it might be a considerable help to me



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­ and you would probably be able to regain
possession here with a minimum of trouble."
  "I must ask you to enlarge on these points,
Inspector."
  "Certainly. In the first case. I want all the
information I can get as to who has been seen in the
dales ­ and you are a fisherman. Next, when Anthony
Vintner has answered all my questions and recovered
his equilibrium to some extent, I think you will find
no difficulty in getting him to accept your offer ­ but
I must ask you to leave him alone for the time being."
  "I see. Well, Inspector, every responsible citizen is
taught that it is his duty to assist the police. If I can
help you, I will certainly stay."
  "Thank you, sir," rejoined Macdonald politely.















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              CHAPTER NINE


  When Macdonald got back to Wenningby Barns
that evening, he found Giles Hoggett cooking supper
for him. After they had eaten and cleared away the
dishes, they sat by the fire and Macdonald said:
  "Will you tell me about fishing rights here? I want
all the information you can give. You have rights on
this side of the river only, I take it?"
  "On both sides," replied Hoggett. "The fishing
rights here depend on the ownership of the dales, and
that fact takes us back a very long time in history.
The dales, as you probably know, are narrow strips of
land at right angles to the river. In ancient times
every man in Wenningby had one or more dales, as
this valley land was the most fertile in the settlement.
It was shared by everybody, quite equitably, and the
curious thing is that ownership of the dales took no
account of the river as a boundary, some of the dale
strips continuing in a straight line across the river.
My dale strips go right across the river, they're let to
Richard Blackthorn. However, I still own fishing
rights on both banks where I own the dales, and so, of


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course, does Shand ­ and the contiguous
landowners."
  "Doesn't this arrangement involve complications
sometimes?" queried Macdonald, and Hoggett
nodded.
  "Yes, it has caused quite a number. As you can see
for yourself, the dales are so narrow that while fishing
you are off your own dale, and on to someone else's
in no time, almost without knowing it. The
arrangement my father made with the Garths was
this: Mr. Garth and my father agreed to fish right
across each other's dales, both sides of the river. That
was all right until Mr. Garth let his fishing to the
Carnton Anglers' Association. Quite profitable to
him, but very annoying for us. It meant that while the
old arrangement held, we shared the fishing with
about two hundred Carnton Anglers ­ not our idea of
a fair division. There was a good deal of
unpleasantness for some time, and at last we
compromised by the Anglers fishing from the dales
on the south side of the river, while the Garths and
ourselves continued to fish right along on the north
bank, so far as the dales are concerned, though
farther upstream the rights are ours alone."
  "I see ­ but isn't it a bit difficult to know when to
warn anyone off? For instance, when your wife saw
Ginner fishing, in your water, how did she know he
hadn't a permit from the Garths?"



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  "She could be certain of that when she first asked ­
and she did ask ­ why a man was fishing on that
stretch. Had it been with permission of the Garths if
would have been stated immediately. Actually if I give
anyone a permit to fish I make a habit of letting the
Garths know, and Miss Garth does the same for me.
There is very little fishing on our side except for our
own families, who are all well known. The Anglers
fish on the other side."
  "But legally you both have the right ­ by ancient,
usage ­ to fish either side up and down each other's
dales, save for the gentlemen's agreement."
  "Yes. That's true ­ but our stretch is a long way
from anywhere and we don't have much trouble
'these days."
  Macdonald fell into a reverie for a while, and then
he started talking. Warm, rested, and well-fed, he felt
disposed to talk again. He told Hoggett about the
portrait of Gordon Ginner and Vintner's account of
his acquaintanceship with Ginner and his history of
himself.
  "I think all that is probably true, as far as it goes,
but I doubt if it goes all the way," said Macdonald.
"My own belief is that Vintner knew Ginner before he
saw him in the pub in Morecambe, and that he was
unwilling to have him as a lodger but was afraid to
refuse. Vintner said that Ginner went off early one
morning, a week after he had first arrived. He gave
September 1st as the day of Ginner's departure.


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Incidentally Vintner knows a good deal more about
various items in this case. How did you first get to
know him?"
  "He has been sketching between here and
Garthmere all the summer, particularly along the
valley. He was always pleasant and asked if we
minded his going on our land. I was glad for him to
do so and my wife was interested in his painting. He's
done some good studies of Ingleborough and the
view over the Wenning to Hornby."
  "So you got used to seeing him about here?"
  "Aye. He was down here most days in the summer."
  "Will you describe the coat you missed from this
place?"
  "It was a very old raincoat, lined with a sort of
green tartan and supposed to be reversible. It was so
old it was almost a pantomime garment, and it was
very long and full. We all used it down here for years,
and then I took it into use on the farm when things
got short, but Kate objected and I brought it down
here again in case she destroyed it. She said it was a
moth-eaten menace."
  "Vintner said he saw an old tramp in the valley,
early in September. The tramp must have been
wearing your old raincoat turned inside out, plus
Gorge's fishing cap and your father's steel rimmed
glasses."
  "Good gracious!" exclaimed Hoggett, and
Macdonald went on:

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  "The point which interests me is this. Vintner
obviously knew about the coat and the cap and the
glasses ­ but I've no proof that he ever saw anybody
in them, or, if anybody wore them, that it wasn't
Vintner himself. The trouble is that I can't take
everything he says at its face value without further
proof because I think he's made up so many yarns in
his time he's got into the habit of it and doesn't tell
the truth except by accident."
  "Let's get some dates down and see how it all fits
in," said Giles Hoggett, and Macdonald agreed.
  "That's the idea. Got a sheet of paper? Good. We'll
both do a calendar of our own and see what we can fit
in. My first date is August 15th, when Ginner was last
seen at his lodgings."
  "August 15th," murmured Mr. Hoggett. "We cut
Richard Blackthorn's oats on August 15th. It was
wonderful weather. I'd say no one in the place was
down in the dales that week ­ we worked on by
moonlight."
  "Vintner met Ginner in 'The Bunch of Grapes' on
August 24th," went on Macdonald, and Giles Hoggett
intervened:
  "The Georges stayed here ­ at Wenningby Barns ­
from August 21st to August 28th. I'll just put that
down on mine."
  "I will too," said Macdonald. "It may be relevant.
Who are the 'Georges,' by the way?"


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   "George is my cousin, a doctor. His name is George
Castleby. He has a wife, Margaret, and the two
children, Giles and Eleanor, called Nell. They stay
here once or twice every year and there's nothing they
wouldn't notice between them. You'll see George this
evening sometime. I rang him up and he's coming to
talk to you about the potters."
   "Good," said Macdonald. "I think our next date is
August 31st, when Mrs. Hoggett saw Ginner fishing.
Now the 'Georges,' if I may use the family term, left
here on August 28th. That interests me because,
according to Vintner, Ginner had no rod with him.
Where did he get one?"
   "Here," said Giles resignedly. "I suppose he took
Uncle Henry's."
   "It seems probable to me," agreed Macdonald. "He
must have mooched around and observed when the
Georges left. Did you come down here on the day they
left?"
   "I came down to help them carry their gear up the
brow though I didn't actually come into the cottage,"
replied Hoggett. "I've been thinking of what you said
about Ginner 'mooching around.' He could have
heard quite a lot that would have been useful to him.
There was a lot of gear to carry up, and it necessitated
double journeys. I remember George was the last to
come up and he was going to go back for the key
which he had left behind, and I called to him not to



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bother. If he'd left it in the usual place that would do
and I'd go and fetch it later."
  "Yes," mused Macdonald. "That might explain a lot.
I had a look at the land bordering the brow ­ you call
those fields the 'bank,' don't you? Anyone could hide
behind those holly trees on the bank and hear
everything that was said by anyone on the brow
without being seen by them."
  Giles Hoggett nodded and then explained.
  "Yes, I've realized that. We all talked pretty freely.
The children said what a pity it was that no one was
going to be at the cottage again for so long, and
Margaret said she'd left everything arranged for the
winter. That meant that nothing was left on the floor
downstairs which could be damaged by flood water if
the river rose high enough to flood the cottage. We
are always careful to move mats and rugs and
hassocks upstairs and not leave any boots or shoes to
float about if the water does reach the cottage."
  "I see. The general trend of the conversation
indicated that no one would be staying in the cottage,
and I expect it would be safe to assume that no one
would ever go down there after dark when the place
wasn't being lived in?"
  "Aye, that's true enough."
  Both men fell silent for a moment, and then Giles
Hoggett spoke again, studying his calendar.
  "Ginner didn't come to Thorpe Intak until August
25th and the Georges were staying at Wenningby

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Barns until August 28th. If Ginner's body had been in
the river for a fortnight when it was found, he
wouldn't have had many days to study conditions at
Wenningby Barns while it was unoccupied."
  "Aye," agreed Macdonald. "That's sound reasoning,
Hoggett. You're thinking that a rogue like Ginner
would have wanted to know a bit more about
Wenningby Barns than he could have learned from
what he overheard when the Georges were leaving."
  "I don't want to accuse Vintner of aught," went on
Hoggett. "I told you that I didn't size him up as a bad
lot, but I reckon he's a weakling ­ got no moral
stamina. Vintner had plenty of opportunities of
studying conditions at Wenningby Barns when it was
empty. It's more than probable he knew where we
kept the key, and he'd have certainly known that no
one ever goes down there after dark in the usual
way."
  "Are there ever occasions when anybody goes
down to the dales after dark?" inquired Macdonald.
  "Aye, if the river rises unexpectedly," was the reply.
"I remember one night when we all went to bed at the
usual time and Richard Blackthorn came and woke us
about midnight. He knew the river was rising, though
we'd judged it'd be safe till morning. We were down
there all night; one of Richard's men had failed in his
duty to drive the beasts up over the river and they
were cut off."



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  For once Macdonald forgot the thread of his
detection as he pondered over Hoggett's words: "The
beasts were cut off?" he asked.
  "Aye. They stood huddled on a little island of
hither ground. We knew where they were, though we
couldn't reach them."
  "But what could you do?" asked Macdonald.
  "Nought. We just waited. The river began to fall
before dawn and we knew they were safe. Richard
drove a wedge of wood into the ground hard by the
gate there. He said: 'If t'water don't reach yon peg,
they're safe.' It came within inches of it ­ and then
began to fall. It rained that night... But this isn't
detection, Macdonald."
  "Quite true ­ but thanks for the story. Now where
are we? It seems probable that Ginner learned all the
details he needed about the cottage from Vintner,
who'd had opportunities to observe it."
  "Aye, that was probably the way of it. Do you think
Ginner imagined he could live in the cottage until the
hue and cry after him died down?"
  "No, I don't, because in my judgment all men of
Ginner's type make certain demands on life. How far
is this place from a pub?"
  Hoggett scratched his head.
  "You should know. You've stayed at the nearest
one."



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  "The Green Dragon. Call it four miles there and
four back. Eight miles of hilly walking. I can't see a
man like Ginner settling in a primitive cottage with
eight miles of walking between him and a drink ­ and
you can't buy spirits in bottles where you're not
known these days."
  "Then what did he come here for?" demanded Giles
Hoggett.
  "I'd risk a guess he came here in order to meet
somebody," replied Macdonald. "It'd have been a
good spot for that. It's safe after dark: it's an easy spot
to describe because it's the only cottage right by the
river for miles. Here are the probabilities as I see
them. Ginner was concerned in a large theft of
clothing coupons. His part in the ramp was
dispersing the coupons ­ passing them on in
comparatively small numbers to others who were
concerned in cashing them, as it were. If Ginner
wanted a safe rendezvous for meeting his clients, this
cottage had a lot of advantages. It is within motoring
reach of the industrial towns of the north; it is
approachable from the Yorkshire wool trade towns,
via the Leeds to Lancashire railway line, and yet it's a
place where the police don't come. 'Wenningby Barns'
­ oh, that's Mr. Hoggett's cottage. Nought to do
there."
  "Aye, that's all true enough," agreed Giles.
  "There's another piece of evidence which fits in,"
went on Macdonald. "While I was in the dales this


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morning I found a tin with the lid carefully soldered
on. Anthony Vintner said he saw the tin last night
when he was swimming. It was wedged in the willow
roots by the bank. That tin contains a large number
of the stolen clothing coupons. It occurs to me that
Mr. Ginner had hit upon a good safe hiding hole for
his most valuable, but very incriminating, property."
  Again Giles Hoggett scratched his head.
  "Then, if I follow you, Ginner wasn't killed in order
to get possession of his loot? It'd be a fool's trick to
kill him before you knew where he'd hidden the stuff
you were killing him to obtain."
  "Aye, so it seems to me," rejoined Macdonald. "Isn't
that footsteps outside, or am I imagining things?"
  "That's George," replied Hoggett.

  George came in with a quiet "Good evening" and
settled down by the fire looking exactly as though he
belonged there and had never been farther afield than
Wenningby village. There was a strong family
likeness between the two cousins, though the doctor
lacked the farmer's healthy tan. George was not so
lank and lean as Giles, and his glasses gave him a
more studious air, but his low, deep voice was so
similar to Giles Hoggett's that Macdonald had an
occasional uneasy feeling that someone was playing
at ventriloquism. He lighted a cigarette, stretched his
feet to the fire and inquired about the river and the


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trout his cousin had caught before any other topic
was mentioned.
  Macdonald, whose Scots shrewdness was far from
lacking in imagination, suddenly realized how
transitory he and his organization were in contrast to
something that was changeless in these two natives of
Lunesdale. It had seemed so incongruous that a
cheap cheating rogue of a townsman should have got
himself done to death in sordid manner in the dignity
and silence of the fell-guarded valley ­ but listening
to the murmur of the low-toned voices, the C.I.D.
man realized that this incursion of alien crime did
not so much as scratch the deep serenity of this place.
It had happened here, but it did not belong here. The
voice of Giles Hoggett and George Castleby brushed it
all aside as irrelevant, and the essential peace of the
valley re-established itself as though Gordon Ginner
had never existed. "...all the beasts of the forest are
thine... and so are the cattle upon a thousand hills..."
The immemorial words were running in Macdonald's
mind when Giles Hoggett said:
  "About the potters..." and George murmured:
  "Aye, the potters," and brought the C.I.D. man back
to reality.
  "It's the Golds you want to know about," said Dr.
Castleby. "They have a headquarters by the Clunter ­
a stream which runs into the Lune some ten miles
from here. There's some level waste ground there
which has always been common land and they have


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their vans and encampments there very much like
gypsies ­ although the potters aren't gypsies. There's
no real Romany blood in any of them, they're
nomads, but native nomads. They travel about with
their carts, huckstering and bartering, but they
always come back to the old pitch in winter. It's not a
bad life ­ and the potters aren't bad folk. I think they
get the blame for a lot of mischief they're innocent of,
because the settled folk of farmsteads and cottages
are always suspicious of the nomad."
  "I don't like the Golds," put in Giles Hoggett, his
voice mild but obstinate. "The old man's got roguery
ingrained in every line of his villainous old face."
  Dr. Castleby chuckled.
  "So much for your judgment, Giley, my lad. You
say 'old face.' Reuben Gold isn't much older than
yourself. I doubt if he's over fifty-five and his wife is
under fifty. I know they look old, but they live hard ­
and drink hard when they've got the wherewithal."
  "Hang it all, George," protested Giles Hoggett. "You
must have underestimated. I can remember Reuben
Gold for years. He's never looked any younger."
  "That's your opinion, but it's wrong," said Castleby.
"I'm fifty this year. I started practicing in Carnton as
old Gregory's junior partner when I was twenty-five.
That's when I first doctored the Golds. Mrs. Gold
came to me one night with a child on the back of her
cart ­ a boy of eight or nine. He'd got pneumonia. I
had the dickens of a job to persuade her to let him go

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into the hospital ­ but we pulled him around. She's
never forgotten. These potters are like gypsies
inasmuch as they never forget a grudge and never
forget a kindness. Many's the time I've been
embarrassed by a basket of eggs left on my doorstep.
They still bring me mushrooms and blackberries and
even posies of flowers."
  "Well, well, I'd never have thought it," murmured
Giles. "Did they bring you any fat ducks last
Christmas? Never mind, George, but you told me
something else I don't know. I'd no idea they'd got a
child."
  George paused and turned to Macdonald.
  "I take it that I can regard this as a professional
consultation ­ that is, the facts I state are for your
information professionally, Chief Inspector, and
won't go any further if they're irrelevant to your
case?"
  "Yes. You can rest assured of that, Dr. Castleby."
  "Very good. We don't repeat gossip, and we don't
usually repeat facts we've come by in the course of
our practice, but you are investigating a murder case
and circumstances alter cases. Now, Chief Inspector,
leaving Giles and his hunches out of this, have you
any real reason for connecting the Golds with your
problem?'
  "I've no direct evidence," said Macdonald, "but
there is one rather curious circumstance. Hoggett
says that when he first discovered the theft of the iron

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dogs, he found in the dales a piece of old curtain
material which had been used for wiping off some
mud and which I think will prove to have bloodstains
on it. Mrs. Hoggett gave the curtains of this same
material to the potters. Another piece of it was in
Anthony Vintner's house. He had used it as a paint
rag and it was stained all over with oil paint. I asked
him if he knew the potters and he denied having
spoken to them at any time. When I asked him where
he came by this piece of paint rag he said that he
hadn't the least idea."
  "Ah, George. This is where you can produce a little
evidence," put in Giles Hoggett. "Did you ask the
children if Aunt Kate ever gave them some striped
orange curtain material when they played Red
Indians?"
  "Yes. I asked them, and they were quite positive
they had never had any such material, and had never
seen any near the cottage. Eleanor remembered the
curtains up at the farm, because Kate used them
when we played charades last Christmas, but they
were then intact ­ not torn up into pieces."
  "Well, that does lead to the conclusion that the
potters have had some connection with the case," said
Macdonald. "Either the Golds brought a piece of
material down here, or else Vintner did. Do you know
Vintner, Doctor?"
  "I've seen him down here with his easel. He shows
every' sign of undernourishment and anemia."


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  "He also shows when he's telling lies," rejoined
Macdonald. "As a rogue, he's very unsuccessful. Every
time he wittingly tells a lie he peers around at one to
see if one's swallowed it. When he tells the truth he
doesn't bother to scrutinize his auditor. I only
mention this because I believe he was telling the truth
when he said he'd no idea where his paint rag came
from. My question about it didn't disturb him."
  "In that case one can make an assumption that
Vintner found a bit of the curtain stuff lying about
somewhere down in the valley ­ where the Golds had
left it, and that Vintner picked it up to use as a paint
rag," suggested Giles Hoggett.
  Macdonald nodded.
  "That'll do for the moment. Is that enough
evidence to convince Dr. Castleby that I'm justified in
asking questions about the private lives of the Golds?"
  "Yes, I think so," replied George. "I was talking
about the boy who had pneumonia. It was in the
winter of 1922 ­ my first winter in Carnton. Mrs. Gold
was then about twenty-six and the boy about eight.
She begged me never to say anything about the child
to her husband. The child was hers, but not his. It
wasn't my business and I didn't ask her any
questions, but when the little lad recovered I told her
he'd better go to a convalescent home. He was still
weak and not fit to live in their camp. She told me
some rather involved story about the child being
tended by a foster mother and said he'd been born in


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wedlock but the father had died. I remember she was
very insistent about the child not being a bastard.
Once again, it wasn't my business. We don't stop to
ask if a child's legitimate or not before we tend it. I
had my own ideas about what had happened in the
matter of Mrs. Gold's child ­ but I asked no
questions."
  "But since you have admitted to having your own
ideas about the Gold progeny, Doctor, won't you give
us the benefit of them?" asked Macdonald.
  "Aye, but they're simple enough. The boy's father
deserted the mother after the birth of the child and
the mother joined forces with Reuben Gold. She was
married to Gold in the Preston registry Office. I've no
real knowledge of Mrs. Gold's earlier history, but I
believe she wasn't one of the potter's community
originally. I think she was the daughter of a
small-holder in the fell country mound Kirkby
Stephen, and I'd hazard a guess she ran away and got
married and was later deserted. The reason I believe
she was married in the first place was that she was
evidently afraid she'd told me too much. You see
she'd been through a legal marriage ceremony with
Gold, and if the first husband deserted her without a
divorce she'd committed bigamy ­ and knew it. But
most of this is surmise on my part. I admit I was
interested at the time. Mrs. Gold was a fine looking
young woman, and at eighteen, when the boy was
born, she was probably a very lovely girl."


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  "This," said Giles Hoggett, "is where I do a little
arithmetic. The Gold child was eight in 1922... born,
1914, present age, thirtyish. How old was Ginner?"
  "Over 45. Probably between 45 and 50."
  "...Once lived in Kendal... call him 50... in short
Mrs. Gold's first husband was Ginner, the son being
Anthony Vintner," murmured Giles Hoggett.
  "Elementary, my dear Watson. Too elementary,"
replied Macdonald. "Life's not as easy as that ­ but I
do feel the story Dr. Castleby has told us causes me to
ponder." He turned to George. "What was the child
like ­ if you can remember anything about him?"
  "He was a fine little lad, with carroty hair."
  "What did I say?" demanded Giles triumphantly.
"Of course he's Vintner..."
  "I don't think so, Giley... I remember the boy had
odd eyes, one blue and one gray, like his mother ­
and Vintner is over thirty, quite a lot over thirty."
  "Well... I'll go into that later," said Giles
imperturbably. "But what about Ginner being the first
husband? It answers everything, motive, means,
opportunity."
  "But without evidence," said Macdonald. "However,
it leaves me with plenty to do. I shall have to trace the
past history of the Golds and of Anthony Vintner. We
are already trying to work back along Gordon
Ginner's history." He paused, and then said to Giles
Hoggett: "It evidently entertains you to make up a


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story which fits the facts. I wonder if your ingenuity
will work to the extent of producing a story which
accounts for the various factors we have been
considering? It isn't altogether an idle question. You
know this place, and you are observant of your
fellows. It may be that you will tell me something
useful when you are least aware of it."
  George Castleby chuckled.
  "As a compliment, that's a back-handed one, Giles,
but I hope you accept the challenge. I'm prepared to
sit back and enjoy the reconstruction."




















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             CHAPTER TEN


  Giles Hoggett sat forward, his feet on the hearth,
his elbows on his knees, and he began his recital very
solemnly:
  "We are considering the death of a man who was
murdered in this valley. So far as the evidence goes,
he was a stranger here, a man concerned with certain
illegal dealings in the industrial Midlands, yet the
evidence goes to show that he met his death at the
hands of someone who knew the conditions of this
valley and could utilize that knowledge. At the same
time the murderer was lacking in a sense of detail
and of real understanding of the inhabitants, for it
did not seem to have occurred to him that any
intelligent construction would be put on the theft of
various trivial objects from this cottage."
  George settled more comfortably in his chair.
  "That," he said, "is a very promising beginning,"
and Macdonald murmured, "Aye, a very sound
beginning," and Giles Hoggett went on:
  "The only evidence which directly connects any
specific persons with the crime is the curtain material

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which my wife gave to the potters. A fragment of this
was found caught on the thorns some hundred yards
from this cottage, another fragment among Anthony
Vintner's painting materials. We have George's
evidence that Mrs. Gold had a son, born in 1914,
previous to her marriage with Reuben Gold. It also
seems possible that Mrs. Gold's first husband
deserted her. Assuming George's theory about Mrs.
Gold's origin in a smallholding, near Kirkby Stephen,
one can reasonably imagine that as a young girl of
seventeen she ran away with a plausible rogue;
perhaps the girl got hold of some money which had
been concealed by her father ­ the thrifty suspicious
fellsman of that remote hill country would likely
enough hide his savings in the house rather than
trust a bank. With the money as a lever, the girl
achieved her marriage lines ­ and then, when the
money was spent, the rogue deserted her. She would
have been used to hard work and a hard life: perhaps
she earned her keep among other casual laborers in
the seasonal jobs of potato lifting, fruit picking, and
hoeing. Her child was born, and put to a foster
mother, and the girl met Reuben Gold, also earning
money by potato lifting or such like, and he fell in
love with her. Experience had taught her to bargain.
She gave nothing away, and she induced Gold to
marry her, keeping her own secret about her child,
and with their joint savings they bought a horse and
cart and joined the potters from whom Reuben was
derived."


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  "Well, well! All considered that's a good effort,"
said George. "From what I know of the facts, you've
made a good job of that reconstruction, Giley. Mrs.
Gold  did  once work in the Preston country, fruit
picking. I know that."
  "Go on," said Macdonald. "I thought this might be
useful, and it's even better than I hoped. You know
this country and I don't. Go on."
  Giles Hoggett lighted another cigarette and stared
at the fire. He was quite obviously taking this very
seriously, and trying hard to work out his thesis. He
spoke slowly, but his voice had a natural tendency to
dramatize his thoughts, and he was curiously
convincing, as though he spoke of something he
really knew, rather than of theories he was
developing. Without elaboration, in simple clear-cut
phrases, he made his story come alive.
  "Sarah Gold had the cunning which often goes with
the primitive peasant intelligence so often underrated
by townsfolk," he went on. "She kept in touch with
her child, but concealed his existence from her
husband. The boy had a mixed inheritance, on the
one side the shrewd tenacity of his fell forebears, plus
the less stable but more imaginative cunning of his
father. The boy ran away when his schooling was over
at fourteen, and he developed his gift for drawing and
became a painter."
  Giles Hoggett scratched his head and added:



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  "I can't tell you much about the boy. I can't see him
very well... mischievous, lively, but with the unstable
element which always attracted him to bad
companions and the seemingly easy path of petty
pilfering. Perhaps he did have an uncle, somewhere
up in the hill country: perhaps the uncle did think he
would give the boy a chance to settle in the country
and raise chickens... I don't know, but I don't think a
north country uncle gave him 500 pounds to waste on
hens which would certainly die..."
  "Leave the boy for the moment, he's not in your
line of country," said Macdonald. "Go back to the
Golds."
  "Aye, the Golds," said Giles Hoggett. "They rubbed
along all right. It was a hard life, but they were both
shrewd at a bargain and they valued their liberty.
Their horse and cart gave them nobility and they call
no man master. Sarah Gold was able to save a bit ­
thrift was in her blood; but she and her husband were
opportunists: they bought what they could, they
saved what they could, and they stole what they
could. They were too clever to be bowled out and they
flourished according to their own standards. This
brings us to the present day and to the appearance of
Sarah Gold's first husband in these parts. Ginner had
been involved in many transactions of questionable
legality and he had a large acquaintance among lewd
fellows of his own type. He had also run a profitable
side-line of paying attentions, with matrimonial
suggestions, to elderly ladies with some amount of

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capital. It seems not unreasonable to imagine that his
first essay at obtaining money in this way had
encouraged him to run the risk of marrying divers
widows in suitably distant localities."
  George laughed aloud here:
  "Steady, Giley, steady! You're giving too much rein
to your imagination."
  "Oh no, he isn't," said Macdonald equably. "Dr.
Castleby may not know that Ginner's disappearance
was first reported by a middle-aged lady of
comfortable income and no pretensions to beauty.
The very first idea I had about Ginner was that a
likely looking fellow of under fifty, of his known
proclivities, could have had only one motive in
proposing marriage to a slightly bearded, teetotal,
Nonconformist widow of sixty ­ and if once, why not
frequently? Hoggett is on sound ground there."
  Giles Hoggett did not laugh at all. He was entirely
serious and working very hard.
  "This brings us to Ginner's appearance in the
Lunesdale country," he said. "Ginner heard from
some of his friends that the police were on his track.
He didn't wait to be arrested. 'No, not me, old chap.
Nothing of that kind of mutt about me,' he would
have said. 'I'm going to beat it. He who steals and
runs away, lives to steal another day.' Beat it, that's
the idea... but where? Then he thought of the north ­
the fells around Kirkby Stephen... cold, dour,
remote... and the country folk have long memories.

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No, not there. Somewhere nearer to civilization,
somewhere within reach of a pub and a cinema and a
railway line. Morecambe Bay. Why not? It'd do as a
starting point."
  Giles Hoggett broke off and turned to Macdonald.
  "That bit about Ginner being in a pub in
Morecambe, it struck me as probable ­ completely in
character. If he played with the idea of concealing
himself up here, Morecambe was such a likely point
of departure. Morecambe in August, crowded with
trippers, the very thing! Then he met Vintner. He'd
seen Vintner before, used him maybe, on some
swindling venture, and had some hold on him. When
Ginner learnt that Vintner had a lonely house on the
felts above the Lune he said to himself, 'That's the
ticket. That'll do while I have a looksee" ­ and he
went to Thorpe Intak and looked around. He saw
Vintner's painting of this cottage and asked about it.
An empty cottage, furnished, a long way from
anywhere. No one likely to be there all the winter.
Just what he wanted. He could even risk making a
date with some of his pals to raise a bit of money.
After all, he'd got those coupons, and they were worth
the devil of a lot if he could market them. He'd have
had to think it out very carefully. He wouldn't have
risked writing letters, in case they fell into the wrong
hands. No use finding a nice safe hidey hole like the
cottage and then giving away the secret. No. I reckon
he did some telephoning. There are plenty of public


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call-boxes to be found on the main roads if you look
for them."
  "Quite true," said Macdonald. "I'm looking into
that Hoggett. Some of these rural exchange operators
have long memories."
  "He did some telephoning," said Giles, earnestly
taking up his story exactly where he had left off, "and
it was while he was waiting about outside a call-box
one day that the Golds passed him in their cart.
Ginner hadn't changed all that in the course of
twenty-five years. Sarah recognized him ­ but, of
course, Reuben had never seen him. Sarah hadn't
forgotten how her first husband had treated her, and
she made up her mind, then and there, to get even
with him if she could. Of course, Ginner didn't
recognize Sarah ­ a thin, weather-beaten, white-
haired gypsy of a woman. If she was beautiful as a
girl, she's not beautiful now... I think the Golds saw
Ginner enter Thorpe Intak. Sarah said nothing ­ but
when she got the opportunity, she had a talk with a
young fellow in the encampment, and offered to
make it worth his while to follow Ginner and find out
where he went and what he was doing. And this,"
announced Giles Hoggett, with earnest directness, "is
where the bits of curtain come in. Sarah tore up some
strips of the stuff, and told her sleuth to lay a trail ­ a
bit of the stuff on a thorn bush, with other signs
which all the tramps and potters can recognize, to
lead her to her quarry."


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  "Bravo, Giles! That's a good effort," chuckled
George. "I wondered how the dickens you were going
to bring in the curtains."
  Giles turned to Macdonald with earnest dignity.
  "It isn't so silly as it sounds," he said. "The potters
do leave signs, just as the tramps do, and that stuff is
very distinctive."
  "It isn't silly at all. It's a very interesting point,"
said Macdonald. "Let's have the rest of your story."
  George suddenly snorted.
  "If you're going to tell me that Sarah Gold killed
Ginner and tied him up with salmon line and wheeled
his body across the dales on your bogie, I tell you
straight out I don't believe you," he said trenchantly.
"The Golds may pilfer. I've no evidence to that effect,
but it's not improbable. But Sarah Gold did  not bash
her first husband over the head with a coal hammer­"
  "I never said she did," said Giles indignantly. "I've
been thinking over my suspicions of the Golds. I still
believe they stole my ducks, and they once milked my
cows when I was in Lancaster, but I don't make any
other accusations at all. If you'd only be as patient as
Macdonald is, I'll tell you just what did happen. Sarah
Gold followed the trail laid from the high road to this
cottage, and when she got here she had the fright of
her not very virtuous life, for one of Ginner's
disreputable urban accomplices had followed Ginner
here, knowing that he possessed the haul of coupons.
It was this scoundrel from the slums of an industrial

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city who killed Ginner in order to steal the coupons.
Once he'd killed him, he had to hide the body, and
being here he saw the iron dogs and the chain and the
salmon line, and he used them. Being a townsman he
hadn't the sense to realize they'd be missed and he
thought it would be all right, so he waited till nightfall
and then hid the body in the river, and Sarah Gold
saw him at it. She was frightened and said to herself
'Better say nowt. Better see nowt. Better know nowt' ­
and she cleared out as fast as she could and told her
husband she was going to see her old sister up at
Kirkby Stephen, her being in a bad way ­ and that's
why Sarah Gold hasn't been seen on the road
recently."
  Macdonald laughed: not in the least scornfully, but
in appreciation of an effort at reconstruction which
he was the first to admit contained some very
ingenious ideas, plus a real knowledge of
possibilities.
  "Congratulations, Hoggett. That was a very fine
effort. You have included most of the facts and, not
strained probabilities too far. The beginning was very
good indeed, but the conclusion was a masterpiece of
wishful thinking. You have persuaded yourself that
the culprit was a scoundrel from the slums of an
industrial city, and that even the potters of Lunesdale
leave court without a stain on their characters."
  "Dog does not eat dog," said Giles with dignity.
"George is probably right about Sarah Gold. Perhaps
she didn't even steal my ducks ­ altho' they were

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stolen. I'm going to make some tea. I'm thirsty after
all that talking."
  He seized the kettle and turned toward the door
(the water at Wenningby Barns had to be fetched
from the beck). Suddenly Giles turned back toward
Macdonald.
  "We ought to have had Kate here. She always spots
the weak points in my reconstructions."
  "Yes. She was born in London. Londoners are a
great race," chuckled Macdonald.
  Giles Hoggett looked pained at this conclusion but
forbore to argue and went out with his kettle. George
Castleby turned to Macdonald.
  "From your own point of view as a C.I.D. man, did
you get anything valuable from Giles's imaginative
effort?" he inquired.
  "Certainly I did. He gave me some very useful
ideas, and I'm far from disdaining ideas when I'm off
my own beat. I encouraged him to do it that way
because he was so interested in his own
reconstruction that he produced his ideas without
sterilizing them by analysis, if you follow me. It often
happens that if you can get a chap talking about his
own environment without the feeling that he's on
oath, as it were, he produces something useful in the
way of local color which a newcomer to the district
wouldn't have thought about."
  "Yes. I follow that, and I admit I was jolly
interested in Giles's story ­ but a story it remains.

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Incidentally, do you really think you have enough
evidence to connect the potters with this crime?"
  "I have enough evidence to make it desirable ­ and
justifiable to investigate them. Those pieces of
curtain material need to be explained. Moreover, they
constitute a link between Vintner and the potters,
which also needs investigating. There is another
point, which I observed immediately I had read the
letter your cousin wrote to me. A lorry man who
knew Ginner slightly put in his evidence that Ginner
had a number of 'low friends' and that he once had a
row with one of them 'about a pottery' or something
like that. I gather that this row occurred at one of
those road-side coffee stalls where lorry drivers pull
in for a hot drink. It was on the road between
Liverpool and Crewe. Now it seems quite possible to
me that the 'low friends' who started the dispute with
Ginner may have been tinkers or members of the
gypsy tribe ­ that is, brethren of the road who may
well have been acquainted with the potters of North
Lancashire and Westmoreland. I tell you this because
I'm hoping you'll be willing to help me a little further,
Dr. Castleby."
  George's expression lacked enthusiasm: in fact he
looked far from happy.
  "Well, Chief Inspector, I am willing to admit my
civic responsibility and my duty to help the police,
but in my profession we are very averse to exploiting
the confidence of our patients. I have told you what
facts I knew because you were justified in asking for

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them, but I can't combine detection with doctoring.
That idea goes all against the grain."
  "I see that," replied Macdonald, "and I'm not asking
you to do any detecting. The thing I want is
confirmation of a fact which you mentioned, but
without any degree of certainty ­ that Mrs. Gold came
originally from a farm or smallholding, in the hills
near Kirkby Stephen. If you can ascertain that, it may
save me a great deal of time. As you know, all
marriage certificates in England and Wales are filed
in Somerset House. Searching with hardly any data is
a wearisome and time-wasting performance, though
it is astonishing what can be done by a skilful and
determined searcher. If I had the name of the district
plus the maiden name ­ if possible ­ of the bride, I
could save one of my men a lot of trouble."
  "I'll try and get you the name of Mrs. Gold's
birthplace, but I doubt if I shall arrive at her maiden
name," said George. "If it's any help to you, I can tell
you that her son was named Stephen, that he was
born in July, 1914, and his birthplace was Preston. I
think his mother would have registered the boy's
birth, because she evidently laid considerable store
on his legal status ­ maybe with the hope of his
inheriting something from his father."
  Macdonald studied the other's thoughtful but
noncommittal countenance. With his large glasses
and composed expression George Castleby looked
both bland and reticent.


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  "The child's name was Stephen," said Macdonald.
"A not very common name these days. Have you any
other reason for assuming his mother's native place
was near Kirkby Stephen?"
  "I think it's probable ­ very probable," said George
blandly. "Here's Giles with the kettle. Any fresh ideas,
laddy?"
  "I'm bursting with information," said Giles.
"Anthony Vintner told me that he originally studied
painting in Preston. He went later to a London Art
School."
  George looked interested.
  "Preston... Well, if it's a coincidence, it's rather an
odd one."
  Macdonald looked sceptical. "It doesn't impress
me," he said. He turned to Giles Hoggett. "Did he tell
you that when he was trying to sell you a picture?"
  "Yes. Why?"
  "Shrewdness on his part. Vintner's sharp enough to
know that you'd feel more sympathy for a man
trained in the north. Think of his voice, Hoggett.
Could you imagine for a moment that Vintner was
reared in the north of England? He learnt to speak in
the south of England. It's unmistakable. You spent
over twenty years in Camford, Hoggett, but it didn't
alter your voice. I've been living in London since I
was ten years old ­ but nobody thinks I was born
there when they hear my voice. A northern accent is


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ineradicable. Anthony Vintner's voice is not the voice
of north Lancashire."
  "Yes. That is perfectly true," said Giles Hoggett. "I
ought to have thought of that. All the same Vintner
must have had some knowledge of this part of the
world. I don't think he hit on Lunesdale by sheer
chance."
  "Perhaps his friend Ginner suggested it to him,"
said George. "Incidentally, I'm far more disposed to
think of Vintner as the culprit than either of the
Golds. I admit Reuben Gold is a rough customer, and
might well have a savage temper when he has been
drinking, but this job doesn't seem in keeping with
what I know of him." He turned to Macdonald.
"Would it have been necessary to be able to swim to
have concealed the sack where you found it?"
  "I think so. You would have had to be quite a good
diver for one thing; the chain was neatly and strongly
hooked on to the willow roots several feet below the
surface. Also, when I was in the river, the stream was
very strong and it was difficult to get out and
scramble up the bank without being washed
downstream. I think swimming must be considered a
necessary part of the murderer's equipment."
  "Reuben Gold can't swim, and both he and his wife
are afraid of water ­ Mrs. Gold has almost a phobia
about it," said George, getting to his feet. "Well, Giles,
I must be off. Good night, Chief Inspector. I shall
hope to see you again some time ­ unprofessionally."


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  "Good night, doctor ­ and thanks very much,"
replied Macdonald.
  "I'll see you up the brow, George," said Giles
Hoggett.



























                      162



         CHAPTER ELEVEN


  Macdonald sat over the fire and pondered. He had
been very much interested in Giles Hoggett's
imaginary narrative. Admittedly it was not detection,
but various points were suggestive to Macdonald's
mind, and indicated different lines of research to be
followed. He sat in the silent cottage, meditating that
it was probable that Gordon Ginner had sat just
where he was sitting now, listening, perhaps, for the
footsteps of an unexpected visitor. Even as he
pondered over this, Macdonald also was aware of
footsteps outside: two men were approaching the
cottage. One was Hoggett, the second a shorter man
who took more footsteps to cover the same ground.
Macdonald sat and waited until Hoggett opened the
door.
  "There's a visitor for you," he announced. "Kate
sent him along and I met him just as I left George."
  "Reeves!" exclaimed Macdonald. "It's good to see
you. Have you brought me some news?"
  "That's it, Chief. The A.C. sent me along with his
compliments, hoping I'd be useful."

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   "Good for him," said Macdonald. "First I'll
introduce you to my friend Mr. Giles Hoggett, who is
our host here. Hoggett this is Detective-Inspector
Peter Reeves, a hundred per cent Londoner, and one
of the best arguments in favor of London ever
produced there."
   "Good evening, Mr. Reeves. I'm very glad to see you
here, and I'm much impressed by the chief inspector's
testimonial. Have you just come from London?"
   "Yes, sir. I reached Lancaster at nine o'clock and
got a a lift from a farmer named Troutbeck. There are
some goodhearted folk hereabouts. I expected to have
to foot it."
   "You must be hungry," said Giles Hoggett
promptly. "I'm afraid we've eaten all the trout, but
I've got a lot of eggs if they'll help."
   "Eggs ­ in the plural? Glory! I haven't met eggs in
the plural for years. Doesn't sound real these days."
   Reeves stood by the fire, a trim well-balanced
figure, alyways on his toes; he was six inches shorter
than Hoggett, and looked like a schoolboy with his
neat dark head, slim figure, and cheerful grin.
   "Do you like your eggs boiled, fried, or scrambled?"
inquired Mr. Hoggett. "There are plenty of tomatoes
and some soup."
   "Sounds good to me," said Reeves. "If you'll trust
me with the frying pan I shall enjoy doing the
cooking."


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  "Right. I'll get the eggs and tomatoes and leave you
to it, while I see about some coffee."
  Once again Macdonald thought how adaptable Mr.
Hoggett was. Reeves was a Cockney; his quick speech
and mobile face made him as unlike Hoggett as a
monkey is unlike a mastiff; but the two men cooked
over the same fire in perfect amity, not getting in
each other's way, and obviously enjoying one
another's odd ways and speech.
  When Reeves sat back with a cup of coffee, after
putting away his own notion of scrambled eggs plus
tomatoes and fried onions, Macdonald said:
  "What's the news from the Metropolis, Reeves?"
  "I've got a line on Ginner, Chief. I've been running
round in circles after him, like a kitten chasing its
own tail. I knew he hadn't been called up for the
Forces ­ groggy heart or something ­ but I reckoned
he'd have had to do Civil Defense of some kind. He
was in Pimlico the first year of the war, and when the
first bombs came down he beat it to the Midlands. I
got that from the Civil Defense bloke who organized
the street Ginner lived in. I followed up on
information received and traced him to Warwick. He
was in the Fire Service there for a while and later got
transferred to Midchester. I got chatting with some of
his mates there. It's a safe bet that if a chap ever talks
at all, he'll talk while fire-watching. Lord, the stories
I've heard from the dumbest blokes God ever made



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while we were on that job. You've got to talk. You
can't help it."
  Macdonald chuckled. "I know. Very sound,
Reeves."
  "Applied psychology," murmured Mr. Hoggett.
  "Fruits of bitter experience, sir," replied Reeves
with his quick grin. "Ginner was an alias, Chief. I
reckoned it would be. It's funny to think the chap got
himself bumped off here, all in the midst of peace,
perfect peace. He'd taken such a lot of trouble to
arrange bolt-holes. He was Gordon Ginner in London
and Midchester. He was Thomas Harcourt Baring in
Liverpool ­ he's got a room there, and an identity
card, too. His real name was George Garstang. I got
that from a bookie in Midchester who knew Ginner
and managed to make him tight one night. Ginner
must have been pretty well sozzled, because he got to
the weepy and confidential stage. Ginner ­ I'll go on
calling him that to save confusion ­ was born in
Preston, in 1900 ­ I've looked up the records in
Somerset House. His father was a commercial
traveler who died in 1902. His mother once lived in
Southport but had had a married sister in
Chapleton-Lonsdale. The Preston people found that
out for us. Ginner's mother came to London when her
hushand died. In 1910 a Mrs. George Garstang died in
Battersea. She'd worked as a barmaid. I reckon that's
Ginner's mother, because I've checked the records in
Somerset House. Jenkins spent all yesterday trying to
find someone who remembered Mrs. Garstang and

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found a woman in the Balham High Road who'd
known her. This old girl ­ name of Peabody ­
remembers the boy as a precocious young varmint,
but she says he used to go and stay with an aunt in
the holidays somewhere up in the north. That'd be
the Chapelton-Lonsdale aunt. His father had no
sisters. Somerset House again. Marvellous what you
can find out there once you've got a real name to start
on."
  "There you are, Hoggett. That's what real detection
is, plowing through old death, birth and marriage
certificates at Somerset House," said Macdonald.
  "Plus applied psychology or the fruits of bitter
experience, whichever you prefer to call it," replied
Hoggett. "The story's come full circle again ­ with
Chapelton-Lonsdale as the center."
  "That's near here, isn't it?" asked Reeves. "I thought
it would be. There's always nearly some sense in real
life stories. If there weren't we'd all go bats in our
department. If a chap like Ginner with a Cockney
accent like mine and lodgings in Pimlico gets his
ticket in a place like this, miles from anywhere, it's
not just chance. There's always a connection
somewhere."
  Reeves looked around the ancient room in which
they sat. "Old, isn't it?" he asked meditatively.
"Centuries old. I bet this room's seen some doings...
Funny to think of. There's a place called Garstang not
so far away, isn't there? I suppose Ginner's people


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came from Garstang originally, it's a rum name. His
ancestors might have lived in a cottage just like this
one. He'd got rooms in Pimlico... nasty rooms. Flash.
All cheap tawdry muck. Like Ginner. He came back
here and got his ticket... as though this place was
ashamed of him. Didn't like him. Wouldn't have him.
Chucked him in the river and got rid of him. What
was it you said, sir? Full circle. . . that's about it. It's
often like that. Sorry, I'm talking too much. It's this
place. It's... got a feel to it."
   "Aye," said Hoggett's deep voice. "It's got a feel to
it. I never imagined a London detective would say so,
though."
   Reeves glanced at Macdonald, a swift glance, to
find out if his superior officer did think he'd been
talking too much. Reeves was as sensitive to
atmosphere as a cat to the presence of a mouse.
Macdonald was staring tranquilly into the fire, and
Reeves went on talking to Mr. Hoggett.
   "A London detective," he echoed, in his clipped
speech which sounded so thin after Mr. Hoggett's
murmuring bass. "You don't think much of
Londoners up here, do you? You flunk of movies and
jazz bands, fried fish and chips and chromium
plating, when you say London. Crowded, isn't it?
Stinks, too, foggy and dirty, with lots of swindlers,
con-men and smash and grabbers. All that. Well, I'm
a Cockney, born and bred. Proud of it, too. But I can
tell this place has got a feel to it. What was the matter
with Ginner was that he made no place his own. Just

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swindled his way from one place to another and
cleared out when the balloon went up. Nasty
customer, was Ginner ­ but his folks came from
around here once. You get good 'uns and bad 'uns
everywhere, not only in London."
  "Aye. You're quite right," said Mr. Hoggett, and
Macdonald seemed to wake up.
  "We've quite a variety of jobs to do tomorrow,
Reeves. I want to interview a gentleman named Gold
myself: he's an itinerant hawker. What we call tinkers
in the south; they call them potters up here. I suggest
that you go to Chapleton-Lonsdale and see what you
can learn there. I wonder if Mr. Hoggett would like to
drive you there?"
  "Aye," said Mr. Hoggett with alacrity. "I'll do that
with pleasure. Is there any ban on my making a few
discreet inquiries from people I know on the subject
of a lady who had a married sister named Garstang?"
  "None whatever," rejoined Macdonald. "I only
make one stipulation. If you go with Reeves, you
must undertake to do what he tells you ­ or not to do
what he bans. He has got to control the expedition ­
but you'll find him a very reasonable skipper."
  "That'll be all right. I won't cause him a moment's
anxiety," rejoined Mr. Hoggett, "and I shall enjoy
enlarging my knowledge of him."
  "Thank you, sir. That's very kindly put," said
Reeves. "I reckon we ought to make a good team. You
know the people: I know the ropes. You can talk to

                         169



the tradesmen and I'll do the pubs. Chatty places,
pubs. We'll work out a scheme so that we don't cramp
one another's style. We don't both want to try the
same people. If you tackle the parson about your old
aunt's housemaid, I'll see the schoolmaster about my
mother's cousin's wife ­ and I'll do the parish
registers. I'm very hot on searching registers."
  Macdonald chuckled. "This is in the nature of a
sporting event," he said. "While I consider that
Hoggett has the initial advantage, because he knows
the country, I'm willing to bet that Reeves will bring
back at least as much information."

  Reeves spent the night in the cottage. He woke up
first the next morning and Macdonald heard him
whistling in the kitchen while the fire crackled
cheerfully up the chimney. Reeves came upstairs
grinning all over his face.
  "Shaving water, sir. Breakfast in half an hour. I like
this outfit. Champion, as they say up here. It's very
well organized, too. Everything to hand, nice and tidy
and easy to find. That Mr. Hoggett must be a very
useful husband."
  "The fact is that he's got a very useful wife," said
Macdonald. "It's Mrs. Hoggett who's the tidy one. You
must meet her, Reeves. She's an intellectual who uses
her intelligence in country life."
  "Brains of the outfit?" asked Reeves. "I shouldn't
say her husband's any sort of fool though. Not half

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wily in his own way. Reckon I'd better leave the
kitchen nice and tidy. I'm all for making a good
impression. My kids wouldn't half like a holiday here
next summer." He chuckled, as cheerful as a
schoolboy. "Better keep it under our lids, sir, or half
the Yard'll be rolling up here as a change from
Brighton. There's some real butter in that larder. You
know ­ yellow and creamy. Straight from the cow."
  "It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good," said
Macdonald.
  Shortly after nine o'clock Mr. Hoggett and Reeves
set off on bicycles. This was Mr. Hoggett's suggestion,
so that Macdonald could have the use of the car.
Reeves had Mrs. Hoggett's bicycle, and he assured her
that he was quite to be trusted with the ancient
vehicle. Macdonald knew that Reeves was almost up
to the standard of a circus trick-rider on a cycle, and
he had no doubt that Mr. Hoggett would have an
interesting ride.
  Macdonald first made contact with Inspector Bord
at Carnton, and gave him a resumé of "information
received." Bord reported in his turn that Anthony
Vintner had only left his house to walk to the pub and
had not had any visitors; that Mr. Willoughby (whose
waders had been stolen from the fishing hut) had
rung up and made an appointment to see Bord that
evening; that Mr. Shand had made a statement to the
superintendent protesting against Mr. Hoggett's
belief that the potters were responsible for the thefts
in the valley; and finally, that Reuben Gold had set

                         171



out in his cart along the Carnton-Ingleton road, and
that Macdonald would probably overtake him if he
drove in that direction.
  It was on a straight, bleak stretch of road that
Macdonald eventually overtook the potter's cart. He
drove past it, ran his car on to the rough moorland
grass and alighted, standing well in the middle of the
road with his hand raised as a signal to the potter to
step. The driver pulled up and sat regarding
Macdonald with a stare which showed no sign of fear.
He was a heavily built fellow with a bearded face, an
old cap pulled down low over his eyes. They were
light colored eyes, calculating and hard, very far from
amiable.
  "Reuben Gold? I am a police officer and I want a
word with you. You can see my warrant. You had
better tie your horse up to that thorn tree."
  Reuben Gold sat still, holding his reins.
  "I'm well enough here. Police ha'nowt against me."
  "That's as may be. You can get down and speak
civilly, or you can drive on and refuse to speak at all.
In which case you will be taken in charge and the
contents of your cart examined."
  "For why?"
  "Because of certain thefts which I am looking into.
You'd better get down, Gold. If you've done naught
against the law you've still got the same duty as every
other man ­ to assist the police when you're called on
to do so."

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  The potter stared back, inscrutable and unafraid:
at last he jumped down from the cart and led his
horse on to the verge, still holding the reins. Standing
thus he waited for Macdonald to speak.
  "I am a police officer from London," said
Macdonald. "I have come to this district to find a man
who has been concerned in thefts in the Midlands.
There have been some unlawful doings in this valley,
and I want all the information I can get. First of all,
what took you down to the dales just lately, Gold?"
  "Nowt. I havena' been in the dales these past two
years."
  "You'll have to repeat that on oath later, so better
think again. I've no doubt you know all about laying a
trail, and following one. I know how to follow one,
too. Where did you get that bit of orange-colored rag
in your pocket?"
  Gold stared hard at his interlocutor, but his face
did not change.
  "How should I know? I buy rags and such like bits
and sell 'em to 'owd gaffer in Carnton. Mebbe the
missis picked owd rag oot and stuffed in ma pocket."
  "Maybe she did ­ and dropped some other bits
along the trail. If it's poaching trout you were after,
better say so. That's a small charge compared to the
one I'm working on. What about the painter at
Thorpe Intak?"
  "Yon's a gey gert fool, that's all I do know about
him."

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  Standing on the fringes of this dour fell country,
Macdonald was aware of two arguments playing
tug-of-war in his mind. The first told him that his
evidence for connecting Reuben Gold with the crime
in the river valley was so slight that any counsel
would have laughed it out of court. The second, based
on his own reactions to the tough fellow in front of
him, was that Gold  did  know something, and that he
had acquiesced in the order to get down out of hid
cart because he judged it as well to learn what lay
behind that order.
  Macdonald tried another tack:
  "Where is your wife, Gold?"
  "What's that to you?"
  "I want to see her. She hasn't been seen on the road
with you these two weeks. Not since you were in the
dales that night. She's got to be found. If you've no
other answer to give to my questions, the whole
police force will be looking for your wife before the
day's out, aye, and questioning everyone of your
fellows, following up every deal you've worked, every
journey you've taken. You know what I'm after, Gold."
  The big fellow came at him so suddenly that if
Macdonald had not been tensed for the attack he
would have gone down on the rocky ground ­ and
stayed there. Macdonald had chosen his own field of
action. There was no witness to this encounter on a
lonely road. Macdonald side-stepped as Gold came at
him and then hit out before the other had recovered

                           174



his balance after missing his blow. Gold went down
from the blow which had a trained boxer's power
behind the punch, but he was too tough to be outed
by one blow; he was up again in a second, crouching
to spring for a wrestler's hold. Macdonald sprang
back ­ he had no intention of playing that game; he
knew well enough the other could likely break his
neck once he got a hold. It took two more punches to
knock the stuffing out of the potter, but then he lay
stunned on the grass long enough for Macdonald to
get a pair of handcuffs on him and a handkerchief
knotted round his ankles. All the time the old pony
had stood quite still, indifferent to the performances
of human kind.
  Macdonald left Gold where he lay in the rough
grass ­ grunting painfully as he recovered from a
blow which would have laid most men out for hours ­
and the C.I.D. man, looking ruefully at his own split
knuckles, went to investigate Gold's cart.
  It was a quarter of an hour later that Inspector
Bord arrived ­ the follow-up having been duly
arranged by himself and Macdonald. Both of them, to
quote the latter, were too canny to leave much to
chance. Bord found the potter's pony grazing quietly
on the poor grass at the road-side. Gold was sitting
up, green-faced and grim, handcuffs on his wrists, an
adequate handkerchief still professionally tied round
his ankles. He was quite silent. Macdonald was sitting
by the roadside, too, his knuckles plastered now.


                          175



Beside him was a pair of waders and a bundle of rags,
including some of Mrs. Hoggett's old orange curtains.
  Macdonald got to his feet as Bord got out of the
police car with his young chauffeur ­ the latter trying
to look cool and professionally unconcerned.
Macdonald addressed the potter:
  "You got what you asked for, Gold. Next time you
think of hitting a policeman, remember we're taught
a thing or two before we get talking. You'll be charged
with being in possession of a pair of waders stolen
from a lock-up hut in the dales. I'll be seeing you
later, when you've had time to think things out."
  He turned to Bord.
  "I think we can get him into your car. Better leave
his ankles as they are. I fancy he can kick. Can you
send a man back for the cart? That's a very good
pony. Never budged an inch. He's seen a thing or two
in his time."












                         176



         CHAPTER TWELVE


  Leaving Bord to deal with the silent potter and the
imperturbable pony, Macdonald turned the car
westwards. His mind was busy with those bits of
orange curtain material, and the more he thought
about them, the more he was disposed to believe that
Giles Hoggett had hit the nail on the head when he
suggested that the rags had been used to mark a trail.
What then could be the explanation of the rag
hanging from Reuben Gold's pocket? A signal of
sorts? Thinking it out, Macdonald came to the
conclusion that here was a possible means of
communication between illiterate folk. A fragment of
the material could be handed on with the tacit
message implied ­ follow this sign, or speak to the
man who carries a similar one.
  Meanwhile, Macdonald determined to follow that
route to Wenningby Barns from the main road which
Giles Hoggett had described as the one most likely to
be chosen by a person who wished to reach the river
valley unobserved. He found the Upfields turning
without difficulty ­ a narrow farm road, marked by
the platform for the "kits" ­ the big milk cans which

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the lorry man collected every morning from all the
farms round about. Macdonald ran the car on to
some waste ground, locked it and pursued his way on
foot. He could see the low stone buildings of the two
farms, which constituted the "Middle Upfield," and
his way led between them, but he saw no signs of any
inhabitants.
  Immediately beyond the farmsteads, the ground
began to slope toward the river valley. Choosing his
way between various gates, Macdonald followed the
slightly worn track down the sloping fields and was
soon out of sight of the farm buildings. The only
creatures to note his passing were some dark-faced
sheep, who looked at him with the inquiring and
suspicious manner of their kind and bleated insults
at him when he had passed.
  Macdonald passed through a gate into the woods
above the Lune. He had been conscious of the
loneliness of the path while he was still in the
pastures: once in the wood he seemed infinitely far
away from human beings. The trees were close and
the undergrowth thick: it was obvious that the path
had not been cleared for years and it was difficult to
follow, overgrown with bramble and rose suckers and
treacherous with sodden leaves and fallen branches.
At one stage he stopped because he realized he had
missed the track and looking around to reconsider he
saw something which might have been dead beech
leaves: certainly there was a broken branch with
yellowed leaves clinging to it, but there was

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something else ­ a scrap of orange rag, impaled on a
thorny branch.
  "Good for you, Giles Hoggett... but why? For what,
and for whom?" he said to himself.
  Back on the right track he walked parallel with the
river and crossed a rocky gill where the beck splashed
merrily down its course, and found for the first time
he had a clear view down to the river and across the
valley to the fells on the southern side. It was a
beautiful prospect and a natural resting place, where
the path was level and clearly defined and Macdonald
looked around carefully to see if there were any signs
of others having passed that way. He soon found
something which did not in the least surprise him ­
an empty tube of paint. It was a Windsor & Newton
tube and it had once contained Flake White.
Although the leaf-covered ground showed no traces
of footmarks, the traces of an easel and camp-stool
were clearly discernible, where the pointed legs had
made holes in the rich black soil. Here also were
some frayed threads of orange cotton, where a
fragment of the curtain material had once been
planted. He followed the track until it brought him
down through the woods to the edge of the dales and
found that he had arrived at the wide level stretches
where Giles Hoggett had chased Vintner in the
moonlight.
  Macdonald sat down on a stile, lighted his pipe and
contemplated. It was clear that several people had
used the woodland path of late; certainly Vintner had,

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as the empty paint tube and the marks of his easel
testified. Almost equally certain one of the potters
had, and left the trail marked by the scraps of curtain
material. Macdonald could now see the usefulness of
that particular stuff: its faded orange tone had
camouflage value. It was possible to find the rags if
you knew what to look for, but you could easily have
passed them without noticing them, so well did the
color tone in with the fading autumn leaves.
Pondering over the matter, Macdonald hazarded a
guess that Gordon Ginner had had nothing to do with
blazing the trail with those rags; it indicated a
craftiness which was quite foreign to a townsdweller
whose lodgings had been described by Reeves as
"Flash. All cheap, tawdry muck." If Ginner had
marked the trail, he would have used something
much less subtle than those tawny rags.
  Sitting on the stile facing the dales Macdonald
began to study the lie of the ground. Eastwards the
track led to Wenningby Barns and the brow ­ a
quarter of a mile upstream. Westwards there was no
path along the river ­ it was necessary to go into the
woods if you wished to walk in the direction of Caton
and Lancaster. Nevertheless, it was obvious that
fishermen would keep down by the stream and
Macdonald decided to do some exploring off the
track and see if they could find anything interesting
in the pathless area between the woods and the river.
  It was heavy going over the pastures where no path
had been worn. The ground was still water-logged

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from the recent floods, and the becks flowing down
from the woods were still in spate, so that Macdonald
was soon so wet that nothing could have made him
much wetter, so far as the legs were concerned
anyway. An incautious step resulted in being bogged
almost to his knees, and he reflected that rock-
climbing was preferable to mud-larking. For once the
Lune was being captious with him.
  It was shortly after he had negotiated a particularly
sodden stretch that Macdonald was aware that he was
not alone in the valley, and his spirits went up with a
bound. Up against the woods, some fifty yards
distant, somebody else was investigating this sodden
stretch of valley, and Macdonald was pretty certain he
knew who it was. The man was short and sturdy, a
rather paunchy figure topped by an old hard felt hat.
None of the farmers wore a hat like that; it had been
bought for town wear, and worn so long that it had
become a favorite possession to its owner. Macdonald
had noted Mr. Willoughby's ancient hat when the
latter had told Mr. Hoggett about the breaking open
of his fishing hut. That hat sat on its owner's bullet
head as though it were part of it ­ and now the hat
and its wearer were keeping well out of sight against
the hedge bordering the woods.
  Macdonald plowed on, as quietly as he could,
paddled cheerfully through another beck, and came
on his fellow mud-larker while the latter was still
trying to lean well back into an intractable and
inhospitable hedge of thorns he could not penetrate.

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  "Good morning, Mr. Willoughby," said Macdonald.
"Are you in trouble? If so, can I help you at all?"
  The stout little Yorkshireman glared back. "May I
ask who you are, and why you are trespassing on
private land?" he asked belligerently.
  "My name is Macdonald. I am an officer of the
Criminal Investigation Department of the
Metropolitan Police, and I am here on duty," said
Macdonald urbanely. "In the course of my duty, I
must ask you to account for possession of the coat
and the rod you have concealed in that hedge."
  "By goom, lad," began Mr. Willoughby wrathfully,
and then subsided a little. "All right, all right. Not so
much of the police officer to me if you please. It may
look a bit queer, but it's all right really." He hitched
his own coat clear of the thorn hedge and went on,
speaking excitedly: "I've been very much put out by
the goings-on down here, and I thought I'd look into
it myself. I remembered I'd caught a glimpse of an old
gaffer along here a few weeks ago ­ looked like a
tramp, but he'd got a rod and creel. You may have
noticed when you look along the valley it's sometimes
difficult to see which bank an angler's working on ­
the river winds such a lot you can't follow its course."
  "Aye, I've noticed that," replied Macdonald.
  "I thought my old gaffer was on the other bank
when I saw him," went on Mr. Willoughby: "then,
thinking it over, I wondered if he hadn't been this
side. This bit of land we're on now isn't Mr. Hoggett's

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land ­ it belongs to the Garths. You'll know the
fishing rights? Mr. Hoggett and the Garths fish right
along this bank, from Garthmere to the Knabb, where
Mr. Shand's water starts. However ­ to cut a long
story short ­ after my hut was broken open I
remembered seeing this old man on the Garthmere
dales, and I thought I'd take the liberty of walking
along to see if I could notice aught. I reckoned it was
some poaching game that was afoot. I found this coat
and the rod caught in the stones in a beck just up
there. I reckon the coat had been hidden in a hole and
the flood water had washed it down. It's still soaked."
Mr. Willoughby poked at the coat with his rod and
sniffed. "Reeks of somewhat," he said.
  "Will you show me just where you found the coat?"
inquired Macdonald.
  "Aye. You follow me. It's no very far. That's Mr.
Hoggett's coat. I must ask him when he missed it. I'm
pretty sure it was the same coat that old gaffer was
wearing when I saw him. It's time this sort of thing
was put a stop to. I don't like it at all."
  Mr. Willoughby led Macdonald about fifty yards
downstream, splashing vigorously over the swampy
ground, and he then halted and pointed to a recess in
the bank at the edge of the woods.
  "It was there. You can see there's a hole in the bank
just beside the beck. It looks as though the ground
gave when the water was in spate and the coat was
washed out and caught on the branches there. There's


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nought else there. I've looked already. The rod was
thrust among the undergrowth."
  Macdonald had a good look. While the chief
inspector was studying the bank, Mr. Willoughby
went on:
  "I tell you straight out, I'm a bit worried over all
this. Seems there's something behind it. Y'know,
when I first saw that coat it gave me a bit of a shock.
Turned my stomach right over. Looked like a corpse,
the way it was caught on those thorns, by heck it did."
He chuckled uneasily. "Detection's not in my line,
officer, but I thought I'd hit on something rum. I
reckon you thought you had spotted something rum
when you saw me, eh?"
  "I certainly wondered what you were doing,"
rejoined Macdonald. "I'd be obliged if you'd come
along with me to Wenningby Barns, Mr. Willoughby.
There are a few points I want to get cleared up, and
it's chilly standing here."
  "Very good, officer. There are a few questions I'd
like to put myself, I admit."
  They went back and recovered the coat and tied it
up with a length of line Mr. Willoughby obligingly
produced from one of his pockets and carried it
between them on a stout stick. They reached the
cottage without incident, and Macdonald put on
some dry sticks and blew the embers into a lively
flame before he sat down note-book in hand to talk to
Mr. Willoughby.

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  "As I've no doubt you've thought yourself, Scotland
Yard doesn't send C.I.D. men to investiate cases of
petty theft in the provinces," began Macdonald and
the other replied:
  "Eh ­ but I've thought of that ­ and it wasn't petty
thefts you were busy on over there by Jacob's Buttery,
officer. What you were after 'twasn't for me to ask ­
but I reckoned it was something amiss, and maybe
the thievings haven't been right out of the picture.
Now what can I do for you in the way of
information?"
  "First, I want a list of the dates when you've been in
the dales since the middle of August," said
Macdonald. "I dare say that'll take a bit of thinking
out, and I'll leave you to it after a bit. Next, I want to
know the date you saw the old gaffer, as you
described him, and I also want to know exactly who
you've seen in the valley this past month."
  "Eh, but I think I can tell you all that plain
enough," replied Willoughby. "Maybe you know I
lease a cottage of Mr. Hoggett's up yonder. My wife
thinks nought of fishing, and not much more of
Wenningby. So when I come here, I come by myself.
Now let me think. The first half of August I wasn't
here at all. My manager was away on holiday and I
was kept busy. 'Twas the third week in August I came
here, on the Friday evening, the 20th that was. Eh, it
was lovely weather, but not for fishing. The river was
low, and so clear the fish could see you a mile away. I
mind I stood by that pool they call Jacob's Buttery an

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you could see the river bed, 'twas that clear. I stood
there and watched a salmon waving his tail in by the
bank there where the willow roots show. Eh, that was
a fish ­ but catch him? No, not worth trying!"
  "Do you fish in Mr. Hoggett's water?" inquired
Macdonald. "Jacob's Buttery comes in his reach,
doesn't it?"
  "Aye ­ that's Mr. Hoggett's water right enow. I
didn't say I was fishing Jacob's Buttery, mind you, but
I walked that way. Mr. Hoggett never takes amiss if I
go over his land, altho' it's Mr. Shand's water I fish. I
told you that bit about the water being so clear
thinking it might help you. That pool was clear as
glass until the weather broke on September 15th. Now
I came again the last week-end in August ­ the 27th ­
but the weather was still the same and the river so
low you could walk across it by the ford. 'Twas not
that weekend I saw the old gaffer. No ­ I remember
now. 'Twas Saturday, September 4th. The weather was
too good to stay indoors and I went down to the river
after tea. I walked down the brow ­ that's my favorite
path ­ and I turned upstream toward Chough Close ­
where my hut is. As I told you the river was very low
and I walked out to where the river takes that big
turn. There's a pool there ­ not a very deep pool, but
it's a favorite one for the trout. I'd got an idea I might
try for a fish after dark. I'm telling you all this to
explain how I saw the queer old chap in the long coat,
because if you get on the top of the bank there you
can see a long way down the valley."

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  Macdonald nodded. Despite Mr. Willoughby's
verbosity, his narrative was interesting to the
detective.
  "That was Saturday, September the 4th,"
Macdonald reminded the other. "You saw the old
man that evening?"
  "Nay, nay! Now don't you hustle me," said
Willoughby. "I'm not much of a hand at telling a
story, but I must tell it my own way. Aye, I remember
now. I lay on that bank thinking how I'd arrange
things: if you're hoping to catch a fish, 'tisn't much
use to make a lot of noise first and startle every trout
from here to Kirkby. What I didn't think of at the
time was that if I'd had a mind to hide, that bank was
a good place to hide on. I reckon my old tweed suit's
much the same color as the stones. I mind I saw Mr.
Shand walk past, and I chuckled a bit because he
didn't notice me, and he and I always have a crack
when we meet. The next two people I saw were a
couple of young fellows, town lads I'd say from the
look of them."
  "Can you describe them?" asked Macdonald, and
Mr. Willoughby scratched his bullet head.
  "I'm none so sure I'm much of a hand at that," he
said. "One was brown headed and one was carrots,
and I could see they'd got a towny color if you get me
­ palish faces that didn't often get the sun. They came
from downstream and I didn't see them come back.
Mr. Shand, he came from upstream, and I saw him


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come back, in about half an hour, maybe. You asked
me to tell you everyone  I saw, mind you," added Mr.
Willoughby, and Macdonald nodded.
  "Aye. Quite right. You're doing just what I want
you to do."
  " 'Twas the next evening ­ the Sunday ­ first I saw
the old gaffer," went on Willoughby. "I hadn't caught
a fish on the Saturday evening, but I'd got a rise or
two. There's a canny owd trout in that pool, and I
reckoned I'd have a go for him after sunset. 'Twas
then I noticed the old man downstream ­ a long way
off, mark you, but he looked a scarecrow because of
that long coat. I couldn't make out which bank he was
on. I took it for granted 'twas the south bank, because
the Anglers''Association fish the water that side ­ but
thinking it over, I'm none so sure."
  He fell into a reverie, and Macdonald inquired
sympathetically, "Did you get your fish?"
  "Eh, did I get him?" echoed Willoughby
disgustedly. "I heard him rise, aye, I heard him
surface, and then he touched my line. I'd've got him if
it hadn't been for some gert fool came blundering
through the gate into Chough Close, making a row
with that rusty chain on the gate. 'Twas all oop then,"
he said sadly. "That fish ­ well he didn't wait. I was
real put out, mark you. I hollered right out, 'Damn
you for a noisy lout!' ­ and I reckon someone was
startled. I heard 'em run. 'Twas a funny go, all right,"
he chuckled. "I reckon they thought 'twas a banshee,


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all in the dark. Like ma fish, they didn't wait. But I
never saw them, so I can't tell you who 'twas. I gave it
up then and went home."
  "But didn't it strike you as odd ­ suspicious, even ­
that somebody should be down in the valley after
dark?"
  "Nay, why sould it?" asked Mr. Willoughby. " 'Twas
a real beautiful evening, warm and balmy. Maybe
'twas one of the farmer's sons come down to bathe
after his long day in the harvest fields. As for them
running, why 'twas natural enough when a voice had
roared at them from the middle o' the river,
seemingly. Of course they ran. I'd've run meself if it'd
happened to me like that."
  "Was there a moon that night?" asked Macdonald.
  "Aye, there was a new moon, but it had set before I
began fishing."
  "The next week-end, September 12th, that was,"
replied Mr. Willoughby, "Again, 'twas no manner of
good for fishing ­ but harvest weather, lad it was
grand! I lent a hand with the carting ­ though I tell
you I'm a bit old for that game. Sixty-two last
birthday and not so spry as I once was ­ but I went
for a swim, all the same, that evening. Nay, you
needn't look so surprised, I've been a swimmer in my
time, and it's not a thing you forget. About six o'clock
it'd've been, and the air all still and warm, I took a dip
from the old willow where Mr. Hoggett's put a diving
board ­ not that you could dive that evening, the

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river was too low. 'Twas after my swim I saw the owd
scarecrow again. I was having a rub down after my
dip and I saw him by the bank with his rod and all,
but 'twas on the further bank he was. That I do
know."
  "Was the river shallow enough to ford?"
  "Aye, if you knew the place to do it, opposite
Wenningby Barns ­ you could wade across and easy."
  "Was the old man fishing?"
  "Aye, I'd say he was. I saw him make a cast. I didn't
stay to mark much, mind you, because I'd no wish to
get rheumatism and I reckoned I'd taken liberties
enough for my age. I went back to my tea. And now
you know why I've been poking around to see what I
could see, Inspector. The rum thing is this: I've made
a few inquiries, but no one's seen the owd gaffer but
me ­ and if so be you ask me how I can prove I ever
saw him at all, well, there's no answer. See him I did ­
but nobody saw him by Scawton Bridge, where
t'anglers mostly make for the river, and no one saw
him at Birka Farm, the other likely road. There you
are, officer. Make what you can of it."
  Macdonald met Mr. Willoughby's steady, rather
pugnacious stare, and at length replied:
  "Since the coat was borrowed this side of the river
and worn this side of the river, perhaps it's not
surprising that no one saw it on the other bank, Mr.
Willoughby. Here's another question for you to


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consider: have you ever noticed the potters on the
road in these parts?"
  "Aye I've seen Gold and his old woman with their
cart. What have they got to do with it? I've never seen
the potters in the valley."
  Now, for the first time, his voice sounded, but
guarded. Macdonald tried another cast.
  "Have you ever taken the path up through the
woods to the high road beyond the Middle Upfields?"
  The other shook his head. "Not me, I'm not much
of a walker these days. I use the Brow to reach the
river."
  It wasn't that, thought Macdonald. It was the
mention of the potters which had the other on his
guard. He tried again:
  "I have reason to believe the potters have been
down to the river, of late. I don't know why. Is it
possible that the old man you saw wearing Mr.
Hoggett's long coat was Reuben Gold?"
  Again Willoughby scratched his head. He didn't
answer for some time, and then he spoke uncertainly.
  "I can't tell you either way. It might have been ­ or
not I can't swear it wasn't. The old chap had an
old-fashioned cap crammed down on his head, and I
wasn't near enough to see his face. I can't tell you if
he had a beard."
  "If you couldn't see his face, you can't be sure he
was an old man. Perhaps it was a young man who

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looked old in the distance in that old-fashioned coat
and cap."
  "Maybe." Mr. Willoughby looked at his watch. "I've
answered your questions as well as I could, officer,
and I want to be away, up to the cottage. If there's
aught else I can tell you ­ well, you know where to
find me. I shall be there tonight. And if I think of
aught else that can help, I'll let you know."
  "Very good," agreed Macdonald., "I know I've taken
a lot of your time. You think it over, and I'll see you
again later."
  "Then good-day to you," replied Willoughby.
  Macdonald suddenly called the other back. "I
forgot to tell you: I've found these waders of yours."
  "Eh...?" Mr. Willoughby was evidently startled.
"And where did you find them?"
  "In Reuben Gold's cart. He'll be charged with the
theft before the magistrate ­ unless other offenses are
proved against him."
  "Well, I'm jiggered..." Mr. Willoughby pulled
himself together and said: "I'm grateful to you for
your trouble. They were very good waders."
  "Aye, I noticed that," replied Macdonald pleasantly.

  A few minutes after Mr. Willoughby had gone,
Macdonald heard footsteps outside and the door
opened without preliminary knocking to disclose


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Mrs. Hoggett standing on the threshold with a basket
in her hand.
  "I've brought you some dinner," she said. "There's a
pork chop, some sage and onions and apple sauce
and a jam pie. It's Giles dinner really, and you needn't
be afraid to eat it because he'll be stung on meat pies
in Chapelton-Lonsdale."
  "But that's  very  kind of you," said Macdonald,
realizing with some embarrassment that Mrs. Hoggett
was regarding his own damp and muddy flannel bags.
  "If you look in the chest upstairs, there are some
very old gray flannels of Giles', and some socks. Go
and change at at once. You're wet through."
  Macdonald laughed, he couldn't help it. "I haven't
been spoken to like that since 1914," he said. "You
sounded exactly like my mother when you spoke just
then." He went upstairs, quite meekly, and changed
into some dry clothes whose size made him realize
that Hoggett wasn't as thin as he looked and brought
his own damp clothes down with him.
  "Go and hang those on the line. They'll soon blow
dry," said Mrs. Hoggett. "Your dinner's ready, all nice
and hot. I'll leave you in peace now."
  "Oh, please don't do that," said Macdonald. "Won't
you stay and talk to me? There are a lot of things I
want to ask you."
  "If you want me to, I'll stay ­ but I didn't want you
to think I came down here to cadge information."


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  She sat down by the fire and looked around the
room. "You're a very tidy person," she said. "Giles
would never keep this place as neat and clean as
you're keeping it."
  "The credit today is Reeves'," replied Macdonald
honestly. "He is very efficient domestically."
  "I should think he's very efficient generally. I like
him. If Reeves had killed that wretched man and put
him in the river, he wouldn't have made the mistakes
the other man did."
  "Would you like to enlarge on that?"
  "Yes ­ if you like." She lighted a cigarette, paused a
few seconds, and then began: "Have you realized what
the murderer's initial mistake was ­ the thing that
really gave him away? It was interfering with Giles'
woodpile and leaving the logs tumbled about. If it
hadn't been for that, Giles wouldn't have come inside
the cottage that day. He might not have come into
this room for weeks, and if he had, he wouldn't have
come in determined to look around to see whether
anything was amiss. Ordinarily speaking, it's quite
possible he wouldn't have noticed anything had gone.
It was just because the woodpile made him
suspicious."
  "Yes. I see. It's a point which most people wouldn't
appreciate."
  "Most people from  away," she corrected. "The
woodpile told me at once that it wasn't anybody from
around here who'd done it, because the farmers and

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their men wouldn't have made that mistake. They'd
know at once it'd be noticed, because they would have
noticed it themselves. Yet the man who stole the iron
dogs and chain wasn't a careless person. He had
swept the floor and cleared the hearth ­ but he didn't
know how to clear hearths properly. He tried to bury
the empty cans ­ but he didn't bury them deep
enough. Finally, he was the sort of person who
wouldn't think that small valueless objects would be
missed. I should argue from that that he wasn't a
poor man; and he wasn't a very observant one, but he
was quite good at looking for things when he'd made
up his mind what he wanted."
  "In your opinion, Mrs. Hoggett, is Anthony Vintner
capable of having done it? You see, he does fit the bill
in many ways; he knows the valley and the river and
the cottage ­ but he has no sense of country ways. It
would never occur to him that a wood pile was an
expert piece of work and that interference with it
would give him away ­ but he did have Ginner
staying with him, and nobody has seen Ginner alive
since the day he left Thorpe Intak. I ask you because
I'd value your judgment on the point. You talked to
Vintner sometimes, didn't you?"
  "Oh, yes. I went and saw his pictures and I like
them. He's a clever painter and he's got an eye which
really sees things, and he can be quite interesting to
talk to on his own subject ­ but he's quite incapable
of having committed this crime by himself, I'm
certain of it."

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  "Why?"
  "Well, you've seen his kitchen, haven't you? If
Anthony Vintner had made a fire and opened tins of
beans and sardines in this place, you'd have found
sardine oil dripping all over the flags, bits of beans on
the crocks and ashes trampled everywhere. He's like
that, he can't help it. He just makes a mess with
everything he touches in the house ­ and it would
never, never have occurred to him to clear up the
hearth."
  "Even if he'd noticed it was swept and clean before
he came?"
  "He wouldn't have noticed. There are some things
he just can't see ­ and he can't reason, either. I've
never met any man who was so incapable of thinking
out cause and effect ­ and the murderer here  did
reason. Apart from that mistake about the woodpile,
most of his reasoning was sound."
  Macdonald nodded. "Yes, I'm beginning to realize
that. The place where the body was hidden was very
ingenious. Did you know there was a considerable
recess in the river bank below the willows in Jacobs
Buttery?"
  "No, but you'd be pretty safe to assume it. The
stream is very strong around that bend, it washes
part of the bank away every year. It's scoured part of
the willow roots clear, so it would obviously undercut
the bank beneath the willow."


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  "I expect the fishermen get to know pools of that
kind," meditated Macdonald. "The sack was chained
in such a way that it would never have been visible
from the bank above, no matter how clear the water
was, and the undergrowth concealed it from view on
the other bank. Also, owing to the way it was fastened
in the recess, there was no likelihood of any
fisherman fouling the sack with a cast. That part of
the job was very well done."
  He paused and added: "Did you notice that your
husband's old coat has turned up? I've spread it to dry
on the hedge at the back."
  "Where on earth did you find it?"
  Macdonald told her and she frowned a little.
"That's the sort of story it's very difficult to prove or
disprove. I'm awfully glad you're on this job, Chief
Inspector."
  "Are you? I'm very glad to hear you say so. I was
afraid you were wishing me at Jericho. Now, can you
tell me this: was Hoggett's old coat here while the
George's were staying here in August?"
  "Yes."
  Macdonald valued that clear decisiveness of Mrs.
Hoggett's. "I asked the children about that ­ Giles and
Nell," she continued. "Children notice things much
more than grown-ups in some ways.  If anything is
moved from the cottage they always notice it. The old
coat was hanging up by the door when they came,
and the children used it when they put up a tent

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outside. Nell said it was hanging up by the door when
they left, and that George's old cap was in one of the
pockets. Their grandfather's spectacles were on the
book shelves. They're quite certain about those facts."
  "Thanks very much. I agree with you that children
do notice if things are altered. Now, I want to know if
you'll come up through the Middle Upfields with me
­ I've left the car up there. What I really want to know
is if you notice anything different from usual ­
anything at all."
  "Yes, of course I'll come. I know the path very well,
but I don't suppose I shall be any good at detecting
things. The children would probably be better."
  "Children aren't on in this act," said Macdonald.
"It's not really a game. No, I think you're the person I
want, and while you are walking up you can tell me
every single thing you can remember about the time
you saw Ginner in the dales."
  They had an interesting walk together, but Mrs.
Hoggett did not have the chance of spotting the
pieces of her old curtain on the brambles and thorns,
because, greatly to Macdonald's interest, these had
been carefully removed from the places where he had
seen them only that morning.







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            CHAPTER THIRTEEN


  When Macdonald reached the cottage again after
his walk with Mrs. Hoggett, he found a totally
unexpected sight. There were two men in the garden,
and they were apparently clinched in a life and death
struggle, swaying crazily with docked arms and bent
backs, heaving slowly back and forth. When
Macdonald first caught a glimpse of the locked
struggling figures, he was just about to race for dear
life to investigate them, when he realized that the two
combatants were Giles Hoggett and Reeves, and their
activity was a Wesmoreland wrestling bout. As
Macdonald opened the gate, they broke apart and Mr.
Hoggett said breathlessly:
  "Aye, that's better. You had me that time."
  Reeves brushed back his dishevelled hair and faced
Macdonald with his cheerful grin.
  "We're exchanging lessons, Chief. Mr. Hoggett's
teaching me a bit about the wrestling technique up
here, and I've been showing him some jiu jitsu
tricks."


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  "Very valuable for both parties, provided you don't
break each other's back in the process," replied
Macdonald. "Can you throw him, Reeves?"
  "In wrestling, you mean? Not me ­ but I'm getting
on. I could put him where I want him the other way.
Come on, chum!"
  The next second Mr. Hoggett was attempting a
newly learned hold on Macdonald, but the latter was
just quick enough to avoid it and eluded his host
while Reeves chuckled.
  "The position was right, but you've got to be
quicker than that."
  "And  that," said Macdonald, "is enough for the
moment. Have you brought me any news?"
  "Aye!" they declared in unison, and Macdonald
laughed aloud.
  "If you go home and say 'Aye' to your wife, Reeves,
she'll think you've got a screw loose. Come on in, and
what about it? Who got first news?"
  They went into the cottage together, and Mr.
Hoggett said: "Reeves won easily ­ but I picked up a
few items later. He'd better tell you his part of the
story first."
  "Well, I was lucky," said Reeves modestly. "I told
you I should try the pubs, I always get some news in
the local. There are five in Chapelton-Lonsdale,
varying from a hotel to some small beer houses in
back streets. Ever been there, sir? You ought to, it's a


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queer old town; all stone houses, even the poor ones.
I put my old raincoat on and my working cap and I
strolled into one of the lesser dives. Beer pretty short,
but more conversation than I'd hoped. I told the tale
about a friend of my dad's, a traveller named
Garstang whose sister-in-law once lived up here.
Funnily enough there was an old chap in the bar who
used to travel in dry goods and he told me to go to
the Spotted Bear and ask for old Tom Brough. Tom
was there all right ­ he's been a carrier on the
Chapelton-Kendal roads for fifty years and he said he
knew the party I meant ­ Mrs. Soper. She once lived
on Albert Terrace, and she had a nephew in London
used to come and stay with her, name of Garstang.
Tom Brough said he'd taken the boy on his rounds
with him once or twice, only he was such a young
limb he'd had to leather him. Mrs. Soper left
Chapelton in 1918, and Tom Brough says the last time
the boy stayed with her was in 1914. That's my little
lot. Now, Mr. Hoggett had better carry on ­ he did all
the rest."
  Giles Hoggett took up the story. "Reeves and I met
for lunch by arrangement at the old bridge," he said.
"I had had a disappointing morning. I called on the
Vicar, but he was a newcomer ­ he'd only been there
since 1924 ­ and he couldn't help. Then I tried the
schoolmaster, but he was worse, and I was very glad
to knock off for lunch. My routine work is not good,"
he added sadly. "I become disheartened by rebuffs."


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  "You're learning, chum," put in Reeves with his
irrepressible grin. "You go on with the story."
  "Once Reeves had found out the lady's name, it put
fresh life into me," said Giles Hoggett. "I felt I could
go asking questions with much more authority, if you
take me. I went back to old Bob Pritchard ­ he's the
harness maker ­ and asked him to tell me who were
some of the older and more respected tenants in
Albert Terrace, so that I was armed with an
introduction as it were. I called on a Mr. and Mrs.
Braithwaite and told them I'd come from Mr.
Pritchard ­ and we had a real talk. Amos Braithwaite,
(he's eighty-two this year) had been coachman to old
Dr. Johnson, and he remembered my Uncle Henry.
Well, he remembered Mrs. Soper too, and  her sister,
who became Mrs. Garstang. The maiden name was
Baring and their parents lived in Appleby."
  Here Giles Hoggett paused, as an orator might wait
for applause, and Macdonald was quick in acclaiming
the point.
  "Bravo, Hoggett! Triumph of routine work!" he
said, and Reeves added:
  "What did I tell you? These stories do make sense if
you stick to them. Ginner called himself Baring on
some occasions ­ it was a name that was familiar to
him, and that place Appleby's somewhere north of
Kirkby Stephen where the doctor said Mrs. Gold came
from. It all fits. I bet young George Garstang-Ginner



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went up to stay at the old home in Appleby
sometime."
  "Now it's you who's going ahead of your data,
Reeves. You're catching it from Hoggett," said
Macdonald.
  Reeves chuckled. "All right, Chief ­ but it  does
make sense, all the same. We're getting somewhere."
  Mr. Hoggett continued: "Amos Braithwaite had not
a very high opinion of either Mrs. Soper or Mrs.
Garstang. In fact he was distinctly uncomplimentary
about the latter lady and seemed to think she'd got
just what she deserved both as regard husbands and
offspring ­ however, you'll like to know some more of
the family history. It's very enlightening. Thomas
Baring, father of Anne and Grace, who became Mrs.
Soper and Mrs. Garstang, was an innkeeper. His
daughter Anne married a railway man employed on
the permanent way. Before they came to
Chapelton-Lonsdale, the Sopers lived in Tebay. Do
you know anything about Tebay, Macdonald?"
  It was Macdonald's turn to chuckle ­ he had not
expected to be examined in topography, but he felt
fairly confident on this occasion.
  "My home is in Scotland, Hoggett, and my way
home has frequently taken me through Carlisle.
Tebay is a station on the main line between Penrith
and Oxenholme junction. A very good center for a
linesman to live. It's after you leave Tebay that the


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line begins to climb Shap Fell. Every railway man in
the world know of the Shap gradient."
  "Aye. You can pass on that," said Hoggett, "but it's
more local knowledge we need. Tebay is on the head
waters of the Lune, and the main road from Kendal to
Kirby Stephen passes through Tebay. You said that
Ginner had lived in Kendal at one time, and since he
stayed with his railway-linesman relatives in
Chapelton-Lonsale he'd have been familiar with all
the places in the Kendal-Tebay-Kirkby Stephen
country. So it's not surprising that he knew a bit
about Lunesdale."
  "He ought to have known better, oughtn't he?" put
in Reeves sotto voce. "He hadn't even the excuse of
being a Londoner."
  "That worm is too antiquated to get a rise out of
this fish," replied Mr. Hoggett with dignity, and he
turned to Macdonald again. "Mrs. Soper left
Chapelton-Lonsdale in 1918 after her husband died,
and she went back to live at Tebay again. She was
then in her early forties in Mr. Braithwaite's opinion.
That would make her around seventy now."
  "If she's alive," put in Reeves.
  "I see no reason why she shouldn't be," retorted
Mr. Hoggett. "One can count on greater longevity in
the north than in the south of England. It would be a
very interesting drive from here to Tebay," he added
thoughtfully, "and one could reach Kirkby Stephen on
the same day."

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  "I reckon that's a very sound idea," said Reeves
apppreciatively.
  There was a silence for a while after that.
Macdonald was evidently cogitating hard and he said
at length:
  "We are collecting a lot of odds and ends of
information which look as though they will fit into
the picture some time, but they're uncoordinated at
present."
  "Like Mr. Vintner's kitchen," murmured Giles
Hoggett.
  "Oh, I wouldn't say it's as bad as that," rejoined
Macdonald, "but the bits and pieces need some
reconsideration. I'm going up to see Vintner again
shortly, and I hope to get him placed in the picture:
after that I'm going to see if Gold will be more
forthcoming ­ and I want more help from you,
Hoggett. Gold is concerned in this somewhere, but it's
important to remember that the crime was carried
out in the dales, by the river. The potters don't
frequent the dales, do they? The potters keep to the
roads."
  "Aye," rejoined Hoggett. "I've never seen the
potters down by the river."
  "Isn't there anything that could have taken them
down to the river?" persisted Macdonald. "For
instance, you can get good prices for rabbits in the
black market, and a fortune for hares. Do you think


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the Golds could have gone down to the dales on a
rabbit snaring expedition? Poaching, in short."
  Mr. Hoggett shook his head slowly. "I don't think
so. No, I don't think so. If they had set snares or traps
they'd have been noticed by some of us. Richard
Blackthorn would have noticed. He knows all the
rabbit runs and burrows. If he'd seen anything of the
kind he'd have said so, and we should all have heard
about it."
  "Well, if not rabbits, what about fish? Mr.
Willoughby told me he sometimes went fishing after
dark."
  "Aye. I've done it myself sometimes. When the
river's low and the water's very clear you can't get a
fish in daylight, but they'll sometimes rise to a fly on
one of the pools after dark ­ but the potters don't go
fly-fishing. No. Of course there's a possibility of
another sort of poaching. I've heard of it being done,
but I've no evidence it's ever been tried in our valley.
If a charge of explosive is detonated in a pool the fish
are killed or stunned and they can be picked up with
very little trouble. Now I don't think the potters could
get fish that way themselves ­ but if other folks did,
the potters might be employed to take the fish away.
Aye, that's a possibility. The potters might provide
safe transport for the loot."
  "That's an idea," agreed Macdonald, "but wouldn't
you have heard the explosion?"



                           206



   "Perhaps ­ but that's not to say we'd have noticed.
They detonate in the quarry on the fells across the
river, and we're used to the sound."
   Reeves put a word in here: "That's just the sort of
game a chap like Ginner would have liked ­ not too
much work and plenty of profit. There are salmon in
this river, aren't there, as well as trout. Salmon's
worth big mosey these days."
   "I'm still thinking about those bits of curtain stuff,
Hoggett," went on Macdonald. He related his
experiences of the morning, ending up with the fact
that when he retraced his steps through the woods
the rags were gone. Reeves immediately put in:
   "Willoughby? It looks mighty like it."
   Mr. Hoggett looked perturbed. "No. Not Mr.
Willoughby. That goes all against the grain. I can't
imagine Mr. Willoughby tying bits of rag on to
bushes. It's all out of the picture. Why should he? ­
and he wouldn't poach anyway."
   "Those rags are connected with the potters," said
Macdonald. "They lead to and from the potters. Now
Hoggett agrees that the potters keep to the roads with
their cart, they don't come down into the river
meadows or the woods, so they wouldn't know their
way cross-country as it were. Isn't it possible some
one laid a trail with those rags so that Reuben Gold
could follow it without getting lost? Even after dark,
provided he'd got a torch, he could have followed that
trail."

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  "That's all right," agreed Reeves, and Macdonald
went on:
  "Hoggett, you suggested, quite reasonably, that the
potters were most likely to be concerned in transport
if there were any illicit dealings. It's not beyond the
bounds of possibility that Ginner used them as
intermediaries to transport his own letters and
packages, and maybe that orange rag in Gold's pocket
was used as a signal."
  "Yes," said Giles Hoggett; "I think that's quite likely
­ but I don't see Mr. Willoughby taking any part in
that sort of thing."
  Macdonald went on: "I think it's reasonable to
assume that those rags were removed this morning
by someone who knew I had taken an interest in
them. Now the news that Gold had been detained by
the police and his cart impounded may have got
around surprisingly quickly. So far as I could see, the
spot where Gold and I met was quite solitary, but I'm
beginning to realize the fell-side can have eyes ­ as
Mr. Shand reminded me concerning the events of
Sunday morning. Some friends of Gold's may have
seen or learned what happened and decided to come
and remove the rags from the trail."
  "Aye, that'd be it," said Giles Hoggett more
cheerfully. "Now that other point you mentioned ­
about the old man who wore my coat. You have now
two witnesses who have seen him, one of them a
reliable witness."


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  "Aye," said Macdonald thoughtfully. "Anthony
Vintner said he saw him and so did Mr. Willoughby ­
but how do I know that it wasn't Anthony Vintner
who was inside the coat Mr. Willoughby saw?"
  "He said an old man," pointed out Mr. Hoggett.
  "Aye, so he did, but any man might have looked an
old man in that coat and cap."
  "It was a good coat," protested Mr. Hoggett sadly,
and Macdonald replied:
  "It still exists ­ as a coat: Mrs. Hoggett wouldn't call
it a good coat, but such as it is it's hanging on the line
to dry."
  "Eh?" cried Mr. Hoggett joyfully, using every vowel
as one vowel in that indescribable Lancastrian query.
"Where is it?"
  "Out yonder. It's wet ­ and it smells."
  "All good tweed smells," rejoined the owner.
  He hastened outside and returned with the weighty
and noxious garment. "Let's put it on Reeves and see
what he looks like in it," suggested Hoggett blithely.
"George's old cap's here, too. Good. Come on, Reeves."
  "You try it on yourself, chum," protested Reeves,
but Hoggett said firmly:
  "No. That's no good. The coat fits  me, it's my coat,
and I admit I look an old man in it, but you're still a
young chap, Reeves. We can get an idea of what a
young man would look like in my coat ­ a


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reconstruction, you see. That's the idea, now the cap.
Well, well, what a difference. Hi, stop..."
  Macdonald collapsed into helpless mirth. First, the
sight of Reeves in the antique garment which reached
right to the ground topped by George's ancient soft
tweed hat was enough to make any man laugh, but
Reeves had his own ideas of a "reconstruction." Swift
as thought, he had lifted the long skirts of the
preposterous old coat and flung its capacious folds
over Giles Hoggett's head, and the two were wrestling
together under the voluminous tweed.
  "Stop it!" roared Macdonald. "This inquiry is
getting completely out of hand. Hoggett, you've got
just what you deserved, and as for Reeves, the north
country air is going to his head."
  Reeves disentwined the good coat from Mr.
Hoggett's head and shoulders, and tottered about the
garden in it, practicing "Eh" and "Aye" in varying
tones, more reminiscent of an elderly sheep than of
anything else.
  "Look at him!" exclaimed Hogged victoriously. "He
does look an old man, a very old man. It might have
been anybody inside my coat. Anybody."
  "Aye, anybody," agreed Macdonald, "including Mr.
Willoughby himself. Thank you for the
reconstruction, it has been very helpful and
suggestive."
  "There's something in it," said Mr. Hoggett
thoughtfully. "Now I have an idea about immediate

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employment for myself. John Staple and Richard
Blackthorn are both dipping their sheep at Great Gill
today ­ they make a practice of doing it together to
economize labor. They ought to be just about through
now, and I thought if I went along now it'd be a good
chance of a crack with them."
  "That's very sound," agreed Macdonald, and Reeves
put in:
  "I'm not in on this act. If I went too I should cramp
everybody's style. If you're going up to see Vintner,
Chief, I should like to browse about down here. I've
heard about the bogie and the pool and the willow
tree and all these fields ­ dales, you call them, don't
you ­ but I'm not on terms with them. I just want to
stare."
  "This," said Macdonald; "is where we leave him to
it. A Londoner in Lunesdale. Good luck to you."
  A few moments later Macdonald and Hoggett set
off up the brow together, leaving Reeves deep in
contemplation in the garden of Wenningby Barns.

  When Mr. Hoggett reached the fold-yard at Great
Gill, the air was still full of the cries of sheep who
were complaining bitterly about their recent
experience. Richard Blackthorn's sheep had been
dipped first and they were now in this paddock, half-
heartedly attempting to pasture and then raising
their heads again to lament. John Staple's sheep were
folded in a corner of the yard, standing in an

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unhappy, huddled flock guarded by his dog. The two
farmers were lighting their pipes and old Bob Moffat
from Garthmere stood leaning on his crook,
cogitating contentedly over a strenuous job well
done.
  "Good day, Richard," said Giles Hoggett. "You're
through in good time."
  "Aye, Giles, we managed," chuckled the farmer, and
Staple added: "That's a job you haven't learned yet,
Mr. Hoggett."
  "I know little enough about my own cattle, Mr.
Staple ­ and nothing at all about sheep."
  "Ah, but you're learning a lot about detection,"
chuckled Richard Blackthorn. "It's a story and no
mistake, these doings in the Wenningby dales. Fact is,
we nearly drowned those ewes, Giles, with Mr. Staple
here telling me the rights of the story when he ought
to've been getting they ewes out on their feet again."
  "They ewes is champion," said old Moffat. "Happen
it's easier to get ewes out o' yon trough than t'sack
out o' river."
  "Aye, it's a real story," said Mr. Staple. "I told you
there was summat amiss when you first told me
about the sack and the iron dogs being gone, Mr.
Hoggett ­ and now I'm told they've run in old Reuben
Gold. He's an owd varmint, but I'm sorry he's had a
hand in this here.
  "But there's nothing  proved  against him, Mr.
Staple," said Hoggett. "It's true he was taken in

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charge, but that's because he went for the chief
inspector and tried to knock him down ­ and got
more than he bargained for."
  "Eh ­ reckon he did. Yon's an ill man to scrap
with," said Staple, seating himself on the stone bench
by the barn door. "We've been chewing it over, Mr.
Hoggett: aye, we're like a dog with a bone ­ can't leave
it alone. Now then, Bob Moffat, what's this about the
big chap you did see in dales just before the weather
went back?"
  Giles Hoggett sat down too, and pulled out his
pipe. This was just what he had hoped for ­ a good,
lengthy, leisurely talk: the farmers had finished their
job with the sheep, they were just tired enough to be
glad of an "easy," and there was a good hour to go
before milking time.
  "Aye. 'Twas the day after we'd finished carting Mr.
Lamb's oats," said Bob. "I reckoned the river'd be oop
soon, and they ewes is like to get caught under bank.
I went down to river past t'ould hull ­ you'll be
minding where I mean ­ and I walked upstream to
Mr. Hoggett's fence. 'Twas Mr. Hoggett I thought I did
see, in 's big coat, just by they thorns. Ah, I said, he's a
fine hefty chap these days, farmin's been t'making of
him."
  Bob took a deep breath while the others chuckled.
  "Eh, but tha's stouter than tha' were that first
summer, Giles," said Richard. "Skin and grief tha' was
then. Now 'tis skin and muscle, eh, Bob?"

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  "But I wasn't down by the river that day," said Giles
Hoggett. "I didn't go down to the dales at all between
August 28th and September 15th. Now who could it
have been, Bob?"
  At this juncture another visitor arrived to swell the
committee meeting. Giles Hoggett's reaction to Mr.
Shand's appearance was, "Confound him. He'll put
old Bob right off his stroke," but Staple and
Blackthorn got to their feet with the courtesy of men
seeing a visitor on their own ground.
  "Good day, Mr. Shand. Weather's brighter again,"
said Richard Blackthorn.
  "Yes. A very pleasant day, Blackthorn. I'd say I'm
not far out if I make a guess at what you're all talking
about."
  "Aye, can't keep off it," said John Staple. "Now
maybe you can help, Mr. Shand. Bob here was saying
he thought he saw Mr. Hoggett down in the dales at
end of harvest, and Mr. Hoggett said he wasn't down
by the river that day."
  "Why did you think it was Mr. Hoggett?" inquired
Shand, but Bob Moffat was unable to talk with the
same ease in the presence of the less familiar and
more pretentious landowner.
  "Eh, I thought like t'were Mr. Hoggett," he
mumbled, and Giles took up the story.
  "Bob recognized my old coat, Mr. Shand. It's
almost an antique ­ not another like it in the valley."


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  "Coat? What sort of coat?" inquired Shand, barking
out his queries. "The fact is that I saw an old chap in
an outlandish coat on your land, Hoggett. Big long
thing, flapped like a scarecrow. Funny thing, I
thought it was you for a moment ­ but it was a much
older man, bent about the shoulders and
knock-kneed."
  "Now when would that have been, Mr. Shand?"
inquired Richard Blackthorn, but Shand turned and
looked closely at Hoggett.
  "No. I don't think it could have been Hoggett," he
said. "Not unless you were fooling for fooling's sake,
Hoggett."
  Giles kept the grin from his face ­ he felt that Mr.
Shand had some justification for his last remark.
  "No, Mr. Shand. Not guilty. I haven't worn that coat
of mine for a twelve month. My wife wouldn't let me.
Now say if you describe the coat you saw."
  "Describe it? You're asking rather, a, lot, aren't you?
It was an old coat... any color or no color. Long. It
looked as though it'd been taken straight off a
scarecrow. It flapped in the wind around that old
chap's spindle shanks. Now I come to think, of it, it
had got some color on it somewhere. Colored lining,
maybe, or perhaps it was mended with another
color."
  "Aye, you're quite right," said Hoggett. "That coat is
lined with colored material ­ a sort of faded green
tartan. It was a very warm coat. My mother had it

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specially made for my father when he went abroad
one year."
  "Good God!" said Mr. Shand, and then added
hastily: "Yes, I see: a very old-fashioned traveling
coat. That'd be it."
  Bob Moffat suddenly spoke up. " 'Twere a rare goad
coat. Aye, and him that wore it had no sort of spindle
shacks like. He was a gey gurt hefty chap. Aye."
  "Have it your own way," said Shand with a shrug;
and turned again to Hoggett. "I've told you my
opinion, and I shan't change it. The chap was a
weedy-looking beggar ­ well, to tell the truth, like
that painter you think so well of."
  Bob Moffat moved toward Staple's sheep. "Happen
I'd better be driving of 'em up like. They'll take their
time and all," he mumbled, and the dog which had
been sitting watching the sheep sprang to attention,
ears cocked, eyes alert. When Giles turned back to
concentrate on the conversation, Staple was saying:
  "If you could fix a date, or get near it, it might help,
Mr. Shand. Bob says he saw the old chap at the end of
harvest."
  "Hard to say. There was nothing to fix it in my
mind," said Shand, and Blackthorn added:
  "Can you remember the weather, Mr. Shand? Was it
a fine day? The weather broke on the 15th, though the
day before was poor-like. Happen the weather might
place it."


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  "I don't notice the weather like you fellows do,"
replied Shand. "It certainly wasn't wet, though. Now I
wasn't here during the first week in September, so it'd
have been before then."
  "Aye. You was away at the end of August, too. Mr,
Shand. I wanted a word with you so I mind that," put
in Blackthorn.
  "Quite right. I remember now. It must have been a
day or two before that, about August 26th," said
Shand. "I'll look up some dates in my diary, but I
think I'm right. August 26th."
  "Aye, you think it over," said Staple, and Shand
turned to Blackthorn with the quick speech of
countrymen.
  "Think it over, eh? It's likely you'll go on thinking
about it till kingdom come. Now, Blackthorn. You're
tenant of that pasture near the Knabb, the five-acre
opposite Lamb's barn. My tenant's been complaining
about a broken fence between his pasture and yours.
It's in a poor way and it's your business to put it to
rights."
  "Aye," admitted Blackthorn placidly. "I mind the
fence. Maybe I ought to've fettled it up a bit, but mind
you, Mr. Shand, 'twas your tenant's horses destroyed
that fence. I'll see to it when I'm on the job. Hedging
and ditching'll get seen to some time."
  "That's the trouble with all you farmers hereabouts.
Some times does," said Shand. "No time like the


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present's a good motto. Good day to you. Good day,
Hoggett."
  They bade him good day, and Blackthorn chuckled.
  " 'Like father, like son.' I mind his father ­ always
in a sweat over summat. Made a pile though, did old
Mr. Shand. He weren't that rich as a young 'un."
  " 'Like father, like son,' Richard. I don't like the
sound o' that. Puts me in mind Mr. Shand  has  got a
son, and there's not much good said about him," put
in Staple.
  "Well, it can't have been Mr. Shand's son wearing
Mr. Hoggett's coat," said Blackthorn. "He's a nowt.
Now I've got a few bits to add, Mr. Hoggett. Your
friend, Mr. Macdonald, walked past the Middle
Upfields this morning."
  "Aye. He did. I told him about the path."
  "Reckon he's not the only one that's used that path
of late," went on Blackthorn. "Tom Profert, he's one
that sticks to's own business and don't do much
cracking, but I went and had a go at him last night.
'Twere hard work, mind you. Tom's as near dumb as
makes no difference ­ but he sees a thing or two.
Reuben Gold was that way during harvest. A funny
thing it was. Tom had got some sacks he wanted to be
rid of, and he saw Gold on that path one morning ­
passing t' farm he were, but he'd not got his cart with
him. Tom reckoned he'd been out after mushrooms ­
a powerful price they are now ­ and he wasn't too
pleased. Tom says Gold came from the valley way,

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like as he'd come up through the woods. Aye, and
Tom saw another chap way back-end of August, that
was. I asked Tom to describe him, but he was no
hand at that. Called him a watch and chain man and
said he minded him of the auctioneer's clerk at the
cattle market."
  Giles Hoggett scratched his head. He was certainly
acquiring evidence, but he began to fear that his
memory would be overburdened. Accustomed all his
life to writing things down he took a pencil and diary
from his pocket, and Blackthorn laughed heartily.
  "Why it's the dead spit of a policeman you're
getting, Giles, with your little book and all. You only
want the patter and they'll be taking you on in the
Force."
  Staple was cogitating deeply. "See here," he said.
"Old Bob was main vexed when he went off like that.
Mr. Shand's ower sharp like ­ but I'd as lief put my
money on Bob being right as Mr. Shand. I'll go on
after him and have another word with him."
  "Aye ­ and I'll come too," said Giles Hoggett.
"How'd it be if we persuaded Bob to come down to the
dales and have a look at one or two of us in my old
coat?"
  "Aye, that's sense, that is," agreed Staple. "He's no
talker, old Bob, but he sees things ­ and when he says
he's seen a thing, he's to be trusted."



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      CHAPTER FOURTEEN


  Macdonald got Mr. Hoggett's car out and turned
eastward. Before he reached Thorpe Intak, he drew
up to speak to one of Inspector Bord's men.
  "He's there at home, sir," reported the constable.
"Given us no trouble at all. He's been out to the local
once or twice ­ sozzling. Brings some liquor back
with him, I reckon."
  "Does he?" inquired Macdonald thoughtfully, and
drove on pondering. When he last saw Anthony
Vintner the man had undoubtedly been hungry and
had said that he was penniless. His financial
condition must have changed rapidly if he had money
to spend on liquor.
  Macdonald walked again over the sour grass, duly
followed by Belinda and the sad little donkey. This
time Macdonald had thought of them in advance, and
rather shamefacedly produced some of Mr. Hoggett's
carrots from his pocket. The carrots were called "Red
Elephants" and justified their name: they induced in
the recipients a sort of incredulous rapture which
made Macdonald forget that he had purloined those

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carrots without either permission or
acknowledgement.
  He knocked on the kitchen door, which was
secured from within, and Vintner opened it.
  "Hallo, Scotty. Come in. I'm working ­ come in and
look." Even without seeing Vintner, Macdonald would
have known that he had been "sozzling," for the place
reeked of stale whiskey.
  Following Vintner into the "studio," Macdonald
saw a large-sized canvas on the easel and stood and
stared. It was a fantastic picture, representing a scene
Macdonald himself had witnessed: a thin, lithe figure
racing over flooded ground in the moonlight, with a
dark, crouching figure in the foreground. Even in its
present unfinished state it was a notable
composition: apart from the mastery of the
draughtsmanship it had an eerie quality which
communicated fear. The running figure conveyed
terror, the crouching one, menace. The head of the
crouching man was blocked in in charcoal, but clearly
it was not Giles Hoggett's head, for the skull was
round and the profile thin and mocking.
  Macdonald stood and stared, and then turned to
the painter.
  "Why were you afraid of him?"
  "Who?" The painter turned sullen.
  "Ginner. That's his head."



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  Vintner sat on the corner of the table and fiddled
with his palette knife.
  "No. It's nobody. Just a picture."
  Macdonald was silent for a moment; then he
reached across the table and set upright an empty
whiskey bottle.
  "Last time I was here you told me you were
penniless. Whiskey costs money."
  "I know that, Scotty. Thirty bob a bottle, damn it. I
sold a picture."
  Macdonald looked steadily at him. "If you were
sober you'd have the wits to think of something better
than that. You haven't sold a picture. You've been
watched all the time."
  "Damn you, it's not your business."
  "It is my business. According to your own
admission, Ginner stayed here with you. No one has
seen him alive since he left here. Ginner had money
with him. Now you have the money. I want to know
where you got it from. You can please yourself about
answering."
  The trenchant voice had a sobering quality and
Vintner stared back, his self-assurance melting away,
but he argued back:
  "You say you've watched me. If you know I haven't
sold a picture, you know I haven't been anywhere to
get any money."


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  "That's perfectly logical. You had the money all the
time."
  Vintner watched the other man, his facial muscles
quivering.
  "You think I went without food, nearly starved,
while I'd got money? I tell you I grubbed up turnips
and potatoes from the fields nearby and lived on
them."
  Macdonald sat silent, considering a number of
things. He was remembering the ashes on the hearth
at Wenningby Barns. The ashes, as Mrs. Hoggett had
said, were the remains of woollen material, plus some
waterproofed fabric. It had been reasonable to
assume that someone had burned Mr. Hoggett's
famous coat for reasons of their own ­ but now the
coat had reappeared. Macdonald had another idea
about those ashes. He spoke again, sharply:
  "When Ginner left here, what topcoat or raincoat
was he wearing?"
  Vintner nodded wearily, as a man does when he
gives up trying. "Oh, all right. If you know, why worry
me?"
  "He wore your coat ­ perhaps to impersonate you ­
and your hat."
  "He pinched my coat, damn him! He went off with
it, with my money in it and my last packet of fags ­
dirty dog that he was."
  "And he left his own coat behind?"


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  "He hid it. I only found it yesterday. He'd got some
money in it and I took it. He took mine."
  Macdonald watched the pale, furtive face with the
red-rimmed eyes. "Where did Ginner hide his coat?"
  "In the chimney of his bedroom. He wrapped it up
in an old black-out curtain and shoved it up the
chimney."
  "And how did you find it?"
  "Because I looked. If you're ever hungry you'll find
it sharpens your wits. When I thought he'd just
pinched my coat and walked out on me it didn't occur
to me he'd left anything behind. He hadn't any
luggage ­ just a rucksack with shaving and sleeping
gear and he'd taken that. Then you told me he was
dead. He couldn't have expected that, could he?"
Vintner began to laugh, a strained, hysterical laugh.
"He didn't expect that. It's funny, damn it if it isn't
funny. No one expects to be murdered."
  "Stop that!" snapped Macdonald. "You're in a mess,
Vintner. You can't afford to laugh. Pull yourself
together, man, and talk sense."
  "It is sense, isn't it? D'you think he said: 'I'm going
to be murdered soon so I shan't want anything'? Of
course not ­ but maybe he said: 'I'll hide my stuff till I
want it. That poor, bloody fool won't think of looking
for it.' I tell you I nearly pulled the walls down. I
found his coat in the chimney and a whole wad of
notes. I spent some ­ the rest are in here."


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  He pushed a tin toward Macdonald, the self-same
cigarette tin which Vintner had taken from
Wenningby Barns. Macdonald's cautious mind said:
"Were those notes in that box all the time? I didn't
open it."
  Steadily as ever, Macdonald asked: "Where is the
coat now?"
  "I sold it... to those potters you're so fond of
talking about."
  "The potters haven't been near this house lately."
  "Who said they had? I wore it when I went to the
pub. Walked past your cop in it... Ginner's
raincoat... I wore it and the cop didn't notice. Of
course he didn't. One of the potters was at the pub,
and I went outside at the back and asked him if he'd
like to buy a coat. I didn't want it. I hated Ginner ­
and I hated his bloody coat."
  Quite a story, meditated Macdonald. He had given
a lot of consideration to the matter of Ginner's coat.
He had had no raincoat on when his body was found:
it looked as though the murderer had overlooked the
coat when he put the body in the sack and had found
it later and burned it, together with the rucksack.
Macdonald went on:
  "What else did you find in the pockets of Ginner's
coat?"
  "Nothing worth, anything. Some bits of paper he'd
made some notes on."


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  "Where are they now?"
  Anthony Vintner shrugged his shoulders in a
helpless way. "I don't know ­ how should I? I put
them back in the pockets."
  "Can you remember anything about what was
written on them?"
  "They didn't make sense. Sort of lists. A. B. and C.
and dates and numbers. Like this: A.250. Sept.: 1.
Point X. Then something about gold, silver and
copper. There was a lot about gold, and more dates or
numbers or something. The last bit was about a hand
at cards ­ but it was sort of gibberish. I tried to make
sense of it, because I thought there might be
something in it. Baring ­ or Ginner, or whatever you
call him, tried to show me some swindling card tricks
while he was here ­ how to deal the sort of hand you
want. I couldn't make anything of it."
  "Can't you remember at all what was written
down?"
  Vintner looked helpless. "It was an awful scrawl,
almost illegible, and it didn't make any sort of sense.
You know the way in bridge problems they call the
four hands north, south, east and west. Well, he'd
scrawled down the cards in four hands, or some of
them ­ like this." He took a piece of paper and
scribbled hastily, and handed the result over to
Macdonald. It ran, "West's hand K.5.7.1.4." "It was
something like that," went on Vintner. "Anyway, it
didn't make sense, and I can't really remember it. I

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just scrumpled up the bits of paper again and shoved
them back in the coat pocket. I know I did that,
because I remember feeling the ball of paper in the
coat pocket when I had it on." He started drawing on
the sheet of paper as though he had lost all interest in
the matter, and Macdonald spoke again sharply:
  "You say that you sold the coat to one of the
potters. You told me last time I asked that you didn't
know anything about the potters."
  "Quite true. I didn't. I heard a chap in the bar say
something about one of the potters outside, and how
they'd buy anything. I got the idea quite suddenly ­
get rid of Ginner's coat. It's a beastly coat anyway. I
went around to the back and found the bloke ­ a real
tough ­ and shoved the coat at him and asked him
what he'd give me for it. He gave me ten bob ­ I asked
for a pound, but he wouldn't go higher than ten bob."
  "What was the potter's name?"
  "I don't know. I didn't ask. Big tough with a beard.
He just mooched off. What are you going to do now?"
  Macdonald had got to his feet, and he replied: "I'm
going to see if there are any other interesting relics of
Ginner's among your possessions. You can sit still ­
and stay sitting still."
  He spent some time looking swiftly through
Anthony Vintner's chaotic possessions, while the
painter sat with hunched shoulders and scribbled, on
bits of paper, on the back of a canvas, on the deal
table top. The drawings were all of Macdonald ­

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profile, fullface, three-quarter; the shape of his skull,
the setting of his head, the slope of his shoulders;
Vintner drew them all from memory, hardly
bothering to glance at the man he was drawing.
  Macdonald went upstairs into the bare, little
bedroom where Ginner had slept on a camp-bed.
There was a crumpled black curtain still shoved into
the small fireplace, and a quantity of plaster from the
chimney had been dragged down and lay about the
floor. There was a cupboard in the corner of the room
where the shelves had been dragged out and the
wallpaper torn off. The whole appearance of the room
bore out what Vintner had said about searching ­
even the floor boards had been lifted.
  It seemed to Macdonald that a man as lazy as
Vintner must have been pretty certain there was
something to find before he undertook such a
vigorous search; anyway, there was nothing else of
interest to be found. He went back into the studio
again where Vintner was still working at his
drawings.
  "Look here, Vintner, I'm willing to believe you've
got a poor memory for facts, but you can't pretend
that you've got a poor visual memory. You told me
that you saw an old man by the river wearing Mr.
Hoggett's old coat."
  "So I did, it's quite true."
  "And you knew it was Mr. Hoggett's old coat
because you'd seen the coat in Wenningby Barns.

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You'd noticed where Mr. Hoggett put the doorkey and
you'd been in there once or twice. Ginner had been in
there, too, because you told him about the place."
  Anthony Vintner sat in glum silence, not bothering
to make any disclaimer, and Macdonald went on:
  "You say you saw a man in Mr. Hoggett's coat.
Other people saw him too. Could it have been Ginner
wearing the coat?"
  "No. I thought of that," replied the painter. "It
wasn't Ginner. Not his shape. It was more like
Hoggett ­ but it wasn't him either. I know the way he
moves. He couldn't have been as clumsy as that."
  "Could it have been the potter ­ the man you sold
Ginner's coat to?"
  Vintner considered, and at length replied: "Yes.
That's more like it. It was about his build... heavy
and clumsy."
  "Have you ever seen the potters in the valley?"
  "No ­ unless it was that chap in the old coat."
  "When were you painting the view across the valley
from the gap in the woods on the Upfield path?"
  "After Ginner had left and before the weather
broke ­ the first week in September. The picture's
there. I asked Shand to buy it. He offered me a
pound-note, damn his eyes!"
  "When did Mr. Shand see it? While you were
painting it?"


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  "No. He came to see me here. Wanted to turn me
out. He can't ­ there's rent restriction."
  "I thought you hadn't paid your rent?"
  "I haven't. I offered him some pictures instead ­
including his own portrait. You should have seen his
face when he saw it. By the way, you wanted to know
when I saw the chap in Hoggett's coat. I've just
remembered. It was while I was painting in that gap ­
I saw him by the river. I thought of putting him into
the picture, I remember now. I painted in the evening
light, and I stayed on a bit in the twilight ­ it's a good
spot. I saw that queer old figure in the half-light... I
believe I did a sketch of that old bloke."
  Vintner got up and rummaged among the canvases
stacked by the walls and Macdonald watched him.
The chief inspector had looked through the canvases
on the first occasion he had come to the cottage, but
he had seen nothing of that particular view. Vintner
stood still and scratched his head.
  "Well, that's rum. It's gone... I had it here
somewhere. Belinda must have eaten it."
  "Perhaps you'll find it later on," said Macdonald.
"Meantime ­ a question I've asked you before. Where
did you get this piece of rag?"
  He produced the paint-stained orange rag from his
pocket, and Vintner shook his head.
  "I don't know, I just don't remember. I bought a
bundle of rags from a junk shop in Kirkby. Perhaps it
was there. Maybe I picked it up. I believe I did find

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some bits in the dales, when those kids were playing
down there. I'm always looking out for rags. I may
live in a muck, but I do look after my brushes."
  "Finally," said Macdonald, "which route did you
take to that clearing? Down from the Upfields or up
from the valley?"
  "Up from the valley. I don't know the other way. I
walked to the barns just before Netherbeck and went
down the bank there, over the fields, and along the
river past Wenningby Barns."
  "You've been in the valley at night several time,
haven't you? You must have been to have done that
flood picture."
  Vintner was silent, and Macdonald went on: "You
were there one night when somebody shouted at you
from the bend in the river."
  "No, I wasn't!" Anthony Vintner sounded
surprised. "No one's ever shouted at me down in the
dales. I should remember it if they had. It's silent
down by the river ­ silent with the peace of God...
until you came."
  "You mean until Ginner came," retorted
Macdonald, "and it was you who brought him here.
Remember that when you're feeling disposed to
self-pity."
  Vintner's face quivered miserably. "You're
self-righteous, like all Scots," he said bitterly. "Do you
think I  wanted  Ginner here, damn you? He was the


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last thing I wanted. I came here to get away from all
that."
  "Do you realize what you're saying?" asked
Macdonald. "If I repeated the substance of that as
evidence, what is the conclusion that would be
drawn?"
  "That I killed him. I know. I'm beginning to wonder
if I did. I hated him. Because he knew of things I'd
done in the past, he was trying to force me to do his
dirty work for him. I was to deliver his beastly letters.
I didn't. I told him I'd put the cops on to him and risk
the results. That was why he beat it. He was cunning,
he knew just how far he could drive anybody."
  "You say that you didn't kill him, Vintner. Then
who did?"
  "I don't know. I tell you I don't know. If I did, I
shouldn't tell you, but I don't know."
  "Where did he want you to deliver his letters?"
  "I don't know. I told him I'd see him damned
before I did anything of the kind. It was a swindle ­
he lived on swindles, but I can't tell you what it was
about."
  Anthony Vintner peered at Macdonald's face as
though he were trying to read his thoughts.
  "Are you going to arrest me and hang me for
killing Ginner?"
  "Not unless I'm satisfied about the probability of
your guilt."

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  "I didn't do it... I'm certain I didn't do it. If you'd
only leave me alone I could start again here... I could
clean up those hen-houses and start again, and sell
some of the pictures. I've learned a lot. I  could  start
again."
  Macdonald looked at the puffy, unhealthy face and
red-rimmed eyes and got to his feet. He knew that
Anthony Vintner had no chance of getting out of the
district, and it was for that reason he risked leaving
him. There was other evidence to be gathered before
any arrest could be made, but Macdonald was
conscious of the grimness inherent in a weak man's
words: "I could start again if..."
  He left Anthony Vintner brooding over his
pictures, muttering to himself the while.

  When Macdonald reached Carnton Police Station,
he found Inspector Bord looking cheerful.
  "Well, Chief, we've collected a few of the items you
wanted. Mrs. Gold has been staying in Slaidburn;
that's right over the fells on the other side of the
Lune. It's a place that's none too easy to get at from
these parts. Mostly folk'd go around by Clapham or
you can get there by road from Lancaster. Now Gold
didn't choose either of those routes: he seems to have
followed the track by the River Roeburn ­ that's a
tributary of our Wenning ­ and he took his missis up
to the top of the fells and she seems to've walked
down to Slaidburn by herself ­ and that's a tidy walk.

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I reckon Gold took that route because it's so lonely
and he thought they wouldn't be noticed ­ it's pretty
desolate fell country up in those hills."
  "That was a mistake on his part," said Macdonald.
"The lonelier the country, the more likely it is that a
traveler will be noticed and remembered."
  "Aye, that's true. There's no actual road the way
Gold took ­ just a track over the fells."
  "Wasn't there a Roman road that came north from
Manchester to Castleton over the fells past
Slaidburn?" asked Macdonald unexpectedly. "I walked
part of it once, and it's grand fell country ­ the track
still follows the Roman road."
  "Does it, indeed?" inquired Bord. "Well, you're
teaching me something about my own country I
didn't know. The track's still there; and that's the way
the Golds went with his pony, right up to the top of
the fells, and there he must have left his wife and she
walked down into Slaidburn. One of our chaps there
who's keen on studying birds actually saw them on
the fells, and that's how we found her. She's staying in
a cottage outside Slaidburn. The other thing you
asked me to find out was Mrs. Gold's maiden name.
Dr. Castleby was quite right. Mrs. Gold came
originally from the Kirkby Stephen country and her
maiden name was West. We traced that through the
records in Preston."




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  "Good work,"said Macdonald. "You've done your
part well, Bord, and done it quickly. I shouldn't have
got far without you."
  "Well, it's nice to know we were able to lend a
hand, Chief. It's your case, but we like to be able to do
our stuff as far as we can. Now you'll be wanting to
see Gold? He's as mum as a graven image. We
charged him with being in possession of stolen
property and assaulting an officer in the execution of
duty ­ the charge sheet's there. Gold didn't say a
word, but I reckon he's had time to think things over
a bit by now."
  At this moment a constable came in with a slip of
paper, saying that it was a telephone message just
sent through by Giles Hoggett. Macdonald took it and
read: "Profert of Middle Upfield saw Gold passing his
farm on foot early one morning during harvest.
Profert harvested between August 28th and
September 10th. Gold was coming away from the
river and walking toward the main road."
  Macdonald passed the message to Bord, saying:
"That has come just when it's most useful. I think
Gold may decide it's wiser to speak out."
  A small room was given to Macdonald for his
interrogation, and Bord said he would come in as
witness. When Gold was brought in, Macdonald told
him to sit down and began.
  "The charge set down against you, which will be
heard by the magistrates, is that stolen property was

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found in your possession and that you assaulted a
police officer in the execution of his duty, but I think
you should understand that you are suspected of
being concerned in a more serious crime. I warn you
that anything you say may be taken down and used as
evidence."
  Macdonald met the man's surly gaze and after a
second or so continued: "On Sunday last, September
19th, the body of a man was recovered by the police
from the River Lune. This body had been tied up in a
sack and was chained to the roots of a willow tree in a
deep pool known locally as Jacob's Buttery. This pool
is a few hundred yards downstream from the cottage
called Wenningby Barns, and a short distance
upstream from the path through the woods which
leads toward the main road between the farms called
Middle Upfield. The chain and weights attached to
the body were stolen from the chimney at Wenningby
Barns. The owner of the cottage reported the thefts to
the police, and at the same time reported that he
found some fragments of orange curtain material
outside the cottage. These fragments were torn from
some old curtains which Mrs. Hoggett of Netherbeck
Farm gave to your wife some weeks ago."
  Macdonald paused here and studied the man in
front of him. Reuben Gold sat motionless, but very
rigid, his big fist clenched, his jaw set. The only sign
that he gave that he was in any way affected by the
narrative was the tenseness of his muscles.


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  "This morning when I saw you on the Carnton
road," went on Macdonald, "there was a piece of the
same orange curtain material in your pocket. Have
you anything to say about what you did with the stuff
after it was given to you?"
  " 'Twas na given to me. 'Twas given to t' wife. She
tore it up likely. 'Twas good for nowt."
  "Very well. In that case your wife can answer the
same question. She has not been seen on the road
with you for some time, Gold, but you were both seen
on the fells above Slaidburn."
  The potter made no reply, and Macdonald went on:
"I asked you this morning what you had been doing
in the dales. You replied that you had not been in the
dales for two years. Do you still stick to that?"
  "Aye."
  "Yet one morning, during harvest, you were seen
coming away from the dales. The farmer at Middle
Upfield spoke to you, and he can swear that you were
walking up from the valley."
  At last the man spoke. "Mebbe I was on t'road by
Middle Upfield, but I wasn' in t'valley. I was out after
wild mushrooms."
  Macdonald was interested in the reply, because it
showed that Gold was cognizant of the law. The
operative word was "wild." A farmer can only claim
that the mushrooms on his land are his own property
if he has planted spawn to raise them. Since
mushrooms have risen in price, some farmers have

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taken to planting a brick of spawn in their fields; if a
dispute as to the ownership of the mushrooms arises,
the farmer who produces the receipt for the cost of
mushroom spawn can claim them as his own
property because they are cultivated mushrooms. It is
a legal offense to gather cultivated mushrooms but
not an offense to gather wild ones. A farmer has the
right to order a trespasser off his land, but he cannot
claim wild mushrooms as his own property.
  Macdonald returned to his statement. "Very good.
You have not been in the valley for two years. How is
it that fragments of this orange curtain stuff which
was given to your wife were found tied to bushes by
the path through the woods which leads from the
Middle Upfields to the dales?"
  "Some child's trick. Nowt to do with me."
  So far, so good, from Gold's point of view. In the
few brief words he had spoken, he had met
Macdonald's case, and though Gold's speech might be
rough, the answers were skillful enough. Macdonald
went on: "About the same time that Mr. Hoggett of
Wenningby Barns reported thefts from his cottage,
Mr. Willoughby of Clunterbeck Cottage reported that
his fishing hut in Chough Close had been broken into
and his waders stolen. Those waders, marked with his
initials, were in your cart when it was examined this
morning. If you have never been in the dales, how did
you get those waders?"



                          238



  Gold was startled at last. He stared unbelievingly at
Macdonald, and sweat broke out on his forehead.
  "You haven't got to answer, Gold," went on
Macdonald quietly. "I have stated my case. You have
the wits to know what a jury would think if they
heard it. I have given you a chance to explain. If you
have no explanation you will have to answer the
question when you are charged in court. I have
cautioned you, and I am not trying to make you give
evidence against yourself."
  "Ah never went near t' fishing hut," broke out Gold.
"If so be Ah'd done what yore trying to make oot,
would A've been fule enough to keep t'waders in ma
cart? Tha's got a maggot in thi brain if tha reckons
that. Ah bought t' waders off a chap oop Kirby way."
  "Very good. When did you buy them?"
  " 'Twas weeks ago. Back in August 'twas. A chap on
t' road, same's ussen."
  "It won't do, Gold. I know when Mr. Willoughby
last saw his waders in the hut."
  Macdonald got up, as though he had heard enough,
and his movement startled Gold into speech.
Macdonald knew that the potter had followed every
implication in the evidence. He knew exactly what he
was up against ­ a murder charge ­ and he was
frightened at last.
  "Nay, Ah'll tell tha," he protested. "Ah never bought
t' waders. Ah found them. Throon awa' they was.
Shoved into a hole in t' wall roond old park at t'

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Middle Ugfield. 'Twas plain they was throon awa', and
I took them, same as I take any rubbish the farmers
don't want. Ah was niver in t' dales. Niver."
  "Did you ask Mr. Profert if he wanted the waders,
or if he knew whom they belonged to?"
  "Nay, I never named them. 'Twas harvest time, and
there was no one about that way."
  Macdonald paused a moment and then continued:
"You know Mr. Vintner, the tenant of Thorpe Intak.
He had a visitor staying with him in August. What
was your business with him?"
  "Ah had no business wi' him."
  "What about the messages he asked you and your
wife to take for him?"
  Gold hesitated: he had no means of knowing that
Macdonald was guessing, but Gold's hesitation told
Macdonald that his question wasn't far off the mark.
The chief inspector went on:
  "You generally keep to the roads with your cart,
and you don't know the field paths very well. That
path through the woods isn't easy to find at any time.
The rags were tied on to the bushes to mark the path,
and they were rags torn off the stuff, which had been
given to you. The path marked by the rags leads
straight down to the meadows by Jacob's Buttery."
  Gold was sweating freely now, his hands clenching
and unclenching, his breathing heavy. Macdonald
went on:


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  "Deceased ­ the man whose body was found in the
river ­ was seen in the dales at the end of August. He
was then fishing without a permit on private water. It
is known that he was at one time in Wenningby
Barns. He was murdered, and his body was put in a
sack and hidden in the river under the roots of the
willow tree. Footmarks were observed by a
responsible witness in the soft ground by the beck in
front of the cottage. These footprints were probably
made by a man wearing the big nailed brogues sold to
wear over waders."
  Gold burst out into violent speech. "Tha's saying I
murdered him. Why should I ha' murdered him? He
was nowt to me."
  Macdonald's voice when he answered seemed all
the quieter in contrast to the other's roar.
  "I am not accusing you of murder. I am telling you
plainly what will be told in court later, and I am
giving you the chance to explain the evidence which
appears to connect you with the murder. There is one
other question which you would be well advised to
answer if you are innocent. Why did you take your
wife away by the lonely track over the fells? And why
was her maiden name found on a paper in the dead
man's coat pocket?"
  Macdonald sat silent again for a few seconds and
then he said: "You can take your time over answering
those questions, Gold ­ but lies are no good. You've
got to make up your mind to tell the truth if you are


                          241



innocent. I'm not going to press for an answer to
those questions now, but there's one point I do want
an answer to. You bought a coat from Anthony
Vintner outside the inn on Monday night. It's
fortunate for you that I know how you came by it, for
that coat belonged to the man who was murdered.
Where is the coat now?"
  Reuben Gold's face was a study: his eyes stared, his
heavy lips were parted, his cheeks were furrowed.
  "T' dirty bastard!" he roared. "Thissen's his work ­
that Vintner. Sold me t' coat, did he, a'ter he killed
that other? Put it on t' me. Ah'll see he gets what he's
earned. Ah'll tell tha, in my own time I'll tell tha!"
  "Be careful what you say, Gold. You can be charged
as accessory after the fact if you say that you knew
who committed a murder."
  "T' hell with thi lawyer's talk. Ah'll tell in my oon
time. Ah've no cause for fear."
  "If you have no cause for fear, you can tell me
where to find that coat, Gold. I've been straight with
you and I told you that I knew how you came by it. If
I had traced it to you without knowing how you got it,
it would have gone hard with you."
  Gold studied the other with painful intentness. At
last he said: "Tha was straight ower yon coat. Aye.
Ah'll say tha was straight. Yon Vintner sold me t' coat
outside t' bar. Said it was his'en, and he wer' broke.
Tha'll find yon coat in t' rag shop at Carnton, Bob
Traske'll show it tha. As for yon Vintner, it's tha job

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to get him. Aye, you get him and let me task him.
Ah'll make him crack, aye, in my own time I'll show
tha."
  Inspector Bord was surprised that Macdonald took
the matter no further. The chief inspector got up and
Gold was taken back to his cell.
  "Seem's a plain enough case to me, Chief. If Gold
didn't do it, he knows who did. You've got on to his
trail down to the river valley plain enough. No jury'd
be in two minds about a verdict after they'd heard the
evidence I heard just now."
  "I don't think they would, if they heard that and
nothing else," agreed Macdonald, "but I can make out
an even plainer case against Anthony Vintner,
complete with motive, and a straightforward enough
case against Mr. Willoughby of Clunterbeck Cottage
in addition."
  "Eh? What's that?" asked Bord, his eyes opening
wide.
  "Ginner was wanted for stealing clothing coupons
and was concerned with some fraud in the wool
trade," said Macdonald. "Willoughby is the one man
in this district who is in the wool trade: he was
frequently in the valley; he is an angler and a
swimmer ­ and I found him with Mr. Hoggett's old
coat. It's no use, Bord, we're not through yet. We
shan't be until I know why Mrs. Gold went and hid in
Slaidburn, and what is the connection between Gold
and Ginner ­ because connection there is of some

                         243



kind. Now I'm off to find Bob Traske. In the
meantime, put an extra man on the road beyond
Thorpe Intak, and I'll probably put Reeves on duty
thereabouts as well. He'll contact your men
somewhere, so you'd better tell them he'll be there.
The only pity is that we can't let Reuben Gold out to
follow his own devices ­ but I think he'd see through
it if we did."
  "Well, you know your own business best," said
Bord, "but I reckon your Mr. Hoggett was right first
guess. He said it was likely the potters ­ and I still
think 'tis likely he's right."



















                             244



         CHAPTER FIFTEEN


  Meanwhile, Giles Hoggett and John Staple had
walked together up the hill above Wenningby. The
sun was warm on their faces as they breasted the rise
until they were at the summit and could see
westwards, right beyond Lancaster and Morecambe
to the glinting waters of the bay. Here they paused in
tacit appreciation, and at length Staple said:
  "Dost reckon it's the potters, Mr. Hoggett? Seems to
me they must know more than they should ­ and that
owd chap Bob saw wearing thi coat, why it might ha'
been Gold, sure enough. He's rare big shoulders; but
he's none so stout about the shanks. Never done any
walking whiles he could ride."
  "Aye. I thought of that," agreed Hoggett, "but it's
hard to say. You passed me on the Chapelton road
yesterday cycling with another chap."
  "Aye, a dark young chap, neat as a bird. Another of
these C.I.D. men, eh?"
  "That's it. Named Reeves. By the way, Macdonald's
found my old coat. At least, Mr. Willoughby found it,
and Macdonald came on him with it."

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  "Mr. Willoughby? By gum, lad, 'tis wheels within
wheels. Yon Mr. Willoughby, I've not a word to say
again him, but he's in the dales oftener than most.
Aye, he's been down fishing after dark, and
swimming, too ­ and he's a sturdy chap for all he's no
chicken. I mind I've seen him lifting some rare big
branches out o' t' river when the foods have brought
stuff down."
  "Aye." Giles Hoggett sounded glum, because he had
always liked the cheerful little Yorkshireman. "It's a
hard nut to crack, Mr. Staple, and all I can do is to try
to get the facts straight. About my coat: I put it on
Reeves, the other C.I.D. man. You can't imagine how
different he looked in it, with George's old tweed cap
on his head making him look taller. It's a rum shape,
that cap. It's shrunk up until it's conical and makes a
man look taller."
  "Aye. I see what you mean ­ the big coat'd make
him look stouter. Well, we'll ask Bob. Bob's got very
good eyes, like all these shepherds. He can't see a
thing near-to, but at a distance he can see things
better than I can ­ and I've got good eyes for far
away."
  They came on Bob Moffat leaning on a gate
watching the sheep in one of Staple's pastures. The
flock had forgotten their recent troubles and were
setting to grazing vigorously, making up for lost time,
their backs to the light breeze. Giles Hoggett went and
leaned against the gate, too.


                          246



  "They're all right now, Bob. Safe home again."
  "Aye, Mr. 'Oggett. They'll do. None so bad they be
this year. I seen worse."
  This was Bob's way of expressing his conviction
that the flock was a credit to him, and Staple looked
over them, saying:
  "Aye. They'll do nicely. You ought to have a few
sheep, Mr. Hoggett, they're useful stock, and you've
got a bit of rough grazing that's not much use to your
cattle. Now see here, Bob. Mr. Hogget and I, we
thought 'twas more likely you'd got a better idea
about the chap in Mr. Hoggett's coat than had Mr.
Shand. No disrespect mean, Mr. Shand's a townsman
before he's a countryman and I'd sooner trust your
eyes than his spectacles, Bob."
  Bob spat, strongly, judiciously, and waved a horny
fist as he usually did before the effort of formulating
a sentence. " 'Im? 'E don't even know t' names of 'is
own fields. 'E axed me once, tell me T' owd names, 'e
said and I towd 'un: Crow Flat, Summer Fold,
Whinney Hill, Clerk's Field, New Banks, Ella's Close,
Longland's, Fortyfold, Broad Ash, Fat Pig, Lamb's Lot.
Could e' name 'em agen? Not likely. As for when 'e 's
doon in t' dales, he does na know thine from hissen.
Canna' tell ewes from lambs, stirks fra' heifers, gilts
from hogs. Sheep, 'e says. Cows, 'e says, and beasts for
'em all. Aye. 'Im and 'is spectacles."
  Giles Hoggett did not laugh: he listened very
intently, because he hoped to repeat this effort

                             247



verbatim to Kate later. It was seldom that Bob Moffat
indulged in speech at such length, and to Giles
Hoggett's mind the effort was memorable. Very soon
there would be no old men like Bob left to recite the
age-old names for the fields.
  "Aye, Bob. I like to hear you tell the old names,"
said Hoggett, and the old man replied:
  "Eh, tha's awreet, Mr. Hoggett. Thi folks lived here,
like us. Tha won't forget."
  "Now see here, Bob," said John Staple. "You're
through for today. What about coming down to the
river with me and Mr. Hoggett, and telling us just
where you saw the owd chap in Mr. Hoggett's coat?
Aye, and he'll put the coat on, and maybe I will, and
you can tell us just what you think."
  "Ah don't mind if ah do," rejoined Bob, "though
t'weren't neither of you, that I do know."

  The three turned and made their way through the
fields until they reached the path through the woods
below the Upfields. When they reached the valley
flats, Bob took charge and led them to a stretch on
the river bank on Garthmere land and turned and
pointed upstream.
  " 'Twas there I saw un, close by t' ould willow. Eh,
Mr. Hoggett, thi granfer did tend those willows
praper like, for baskets; but they've been let go and
now they're fit for nowt. Aye, 'twas here I saw the owd
un, close by yon willow it was."

                          248



  It took little persuading to make Bob agree to stay
where he was by the river, while Hoggett and Staple
hurried back to the cottage and found Reeves,
apparently busy loading up the bogie with logs.
  "Hi, you can come and help over this," he called.
  "Aye, but first you can help us," replied Mr.
Hoggett. "We've got old Bob Moffat down by the river,
and he saw the chap in my old coat. We want to get
an idea of the man he saw."
  "I get you," replied Reeves. "You want me to put the
coat on and act suspicous-like. Right-o. Here it is... If
this is what you call a good coat, chum, give me
utility every time. It weighs a ton to start with... and
the hat... best dustman's model. Got any specs on
you? Might as well do the thing in style."
  "I'm afraid I've only got horn-rims, but Mr. Staple
might lend you his."
  Mr. Staple was struggling manfully with the mirth
that beset him: "By heck, I wouldn't have believed it,"
he said. "What was't I said? Neat as a bird. Look at
him now. He might be old Tim Thorpe over at
Highfell. Ninety-two he is. Here's my specs, lad, and
no games wi' them, if you please. They do suit me
proper... I don't like those neat blue trousers of yours
with this outfit. Not in the picture like. Leggings he
should have. Nay, don't spoil the job by being hasty
like. Bob won't mind waiting. Mr. Hoggett, you'll have
some old leggings here somewhere?"
  "Aye. I won't be a minute. I've got the very thing."

                          249



  A moment later Reeves' shanks were being suitably
encased, while Staple murmured:
  "Spindle-shanks he said. Aye, spindle-shanks.
That's true enow. You'll do lad. Go and do thi part."
  Reeves walked clumsily out of the garden and
made his way toward the river. With every step which
took him farther away, Giles Hoggett felt more
strongly that it would be impossible ever to swear to
the identity of a man in those garments. The figure he
saw was no longer Reeves ­ it was nothing like him.
The bulky shapeless coat made him double his own
size, the hat concealed his face and altered the
character of his head; in short, the figure by the river
was unrecognizable.
  Staple stood and stared. "Yon's a rum go," he said.
"That coat and hat, 'tis champion for a disguise. If so
be the villain wore these, reckon nobody could swear
to him."
  When Reeves returned, Mr. Hoggett went through
the same performance, and finally Mr. Staple went
and poked around by the willow tree, similarly clad.
After this, leaving coat and hat behind, the three men
went and joined Bob Moffat.
  "Eh..." he said, " 'twas champion, that was. First,
the little chap there. T' coat did reach nigh to's ankles,
but I saw his legs when he climbed up a bit to t' bank
by t'owd willow. Neat as a donkey's tha legs is, lad ­
and tha hands right oop t' sleeves, I marked 'un. Then
thee, Mr. Hoggett. 'Twas more like, aye, 'twas more

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like, but tha moved lissom-like, wi' fine long strides,
and thi shoulders swung like a man used to hills. Aye,
that's it. I seen tha go oop hills easy-like; long strides
tha takes, not like Mr. Staple. He's nearer the build,
likely, but he sets his feet firm wi' not so much spring.
T' chap I saw, he wer stouter and he slipped wi's feet.
Not used to muck like."
  "Bravo, Bob! You see a thing or two," said Mr.
Hoggett. "You're a better detective than I am."
  "Now, Bob. You know the potters ­ Reuben Gold
that comes around with his old nag," said Staple.
"Could it have been him you saw?"
  Bob considered. "I never saw no beard, but t' chap I
saw had collar right oop around 's chin. Gold, he's
always in his cart. Ah niver seen 'im step out ­ but ah
reckon 'twas nearer Gold than any of thee. A bit
'unched about the shoulders he were, aye, and
stoutish. Ah can't tell for why, that coat's powerful
big, but ah did think 'twas a big chap inside un ­
stout like."
  With that they had to be content, and Mr. Staple
and Bob Moffat went home to the comprehensive tea
with which the farm world celebrates the end of the
main part of the day's toil.
  Hoggett and Reeves walked back to the cottage,
and Hoggett said: "What were you doing with the
bogie and those logs?"
  "Now you're here, I shan't want the logs," said
Reeves. "You'll do instead. As you probably know, a

                           251



human body is an awkward thing to lift if you don't
know how to do it. I weigh ten stone odd; I guess you
weigh nearly thirteen, but probably I could carry you
farther than you could carry me because I've been
trained to do it."
  Mr. Hoggett looked skeptical; Reeves didn't look
much like a weight-lifter ­ but Hoggett  also
remembered the ease with which Reeves had reduced
him to helplessness in the Jiu-Jitsu demonstration.
  "Aye, perhaps you could," he admitted, and Reeves
went on:
  "In your original evidence you mentioned the
bogie tracks by the small stream there. You saw those
tracks after it had been raining for twenty-four hours.
Before that the weather had been dry for weeks."
  "Aye. It's like this. The ground as a whole was dry
and hard up till September 15th, but the ground by
that beck wasn't dry. As the water in the beck fell
lower, the ground along its course dried as river silt
does dry, going through a stage when it will take an
impress and retain it. The tracks I saw were made
before the weather broke and had dried hard, so that
even after twenty-four hours of  rain they were still
observable."
  "They had probably been made by a considerable
weight. I've been trying it out. It's no sense of balance,
if you see what I mean."
  "I know," replied Giles Hoggett. "I made it myself,
long before we lived here. I thought we could haul

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our suitcases up the brow in one journey. Kate always
said it wouldn't work. She was quite right."
  "Well, if you made it, see if you can work it, chum,"
replied Reeves cheerfully. "I'll get in it, so... Now you
push me as far as the willow trees."
  "I can't," admitted Giles Hoggett. "The' ground's too
soft now; those wheels would sink right in. If the
ground were hard I could have done it."
  "Oh, don't give up without trying. The track's fairly
hard. Give me a ride as far as the brow."
  With Reeves as cargo, Giles Hoggett manhandled
the bogie about fifty yards along the rough path.
Then he stood panting.
  Reeves scrambled out. "Yes. It sounds easy on
paper, but it's not so good in practice. Your turn now;
load up."
  With Giles Hoggett's long limbs disposed somehow
on the groaning contraption, Reeves set to work to
push. He worked manfully, putting his back into it,
but the bogie jibbed at a rut and finally capsized,
tumbling its burden out.
  "That's just what I expected," said Reeves
cheerfully. "I'm no sort of hand at this here. Stay
where you are, chum. I'm going to do a bit of
fireman's lift."
  Greatly to Mr. Hoggett's surprise, he found himself
draped around Reeves' shoulders while the latter
crouched beside him and then the tough little


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Cockney raised himself until he could walk, and with
bent back he carried Hoggett bodily back to the
cottage gate, where he released him.
  "I bet that's how it was done, chum. He tried the
bogie and it worked on level ground, then it capsized.
I tell you one thing ­ that Vintner lad never did this
job. He's not got the physique for it."
  "Do you think two men were involved, one hauling,
one pushing?"
  "No. If there were two they wouldn't have goated
about with that there thing. They'd have lifted
between them." Reeves walked back and collected the
despised bogie. "It's like this. No one with any sense
would ever have imagined they could get that thing
across to the river with an awkward weight on it. I
reckon the chap who did this hadn't much
mechanical sense. The fact that you saw the bogie
marks proves he tried ­ but it wouldn't have worked
far. Lifting's the only way."
  Mr. Hoggett looked rather depressed. "We don't
seem to have got much further," he said, and Reeves
replied:
  "If you knew a little more about our job you
wouldn't say that. Here a little and there a little is our
motto, and it's quite as important to find out what
didn't happen as what did happen. Why, I've
sometimes put in a week's hard work and got less out
of it than I got out of this evening's little game."


                           254



  "Well ­ I must go and get on with milking," said
Mr. Hoggett. "My cows will be bawling their heads
off." He paused and then asked: "Ever milked a cow,
Reeves?"
  Reeves grinned. "Never ­ but I hope to try my hand
at it before I leave Lunesdale."
  "Aye. I remember coming across a very good motto
once ­ 'What one fool can do, another fool can do.' I'll
go on up now, and I'll ring through to Carnton to
leave a message for Macdonald about Profert having
seen Gold on the Upfield path."
  "That's right. Good liaison work," said Reeves.

  When Macdonald had finished interviewing Gold,
he drove back to Wenningby. First he saw Giles
Hoggett and heard an accurate report of the
discussion in Richard Blackthorn's fold yard and the
subsequent activities by the river. He then went down
the brow to the cottage, and found Reeves just
completing a country-tea, in which eggs, tomatoes,
honey and rosy apples had all played a part.
  Macdonald, aware that he might have a long
evening before him, expressed himself in the local
idiom: "Don't mind if I do," and enjoyed a similar
repast. During his meal he exchanged with Reeves all
the items of information collected since they had last
met. The two detectives examined every shred of
evidence, balancing detail against detail. It was a
merciless analysis, in which two expert minds built

                          255



up an edifice of proven fact, side by side with the
deductions which could be drawn therefrom. The
facts were essential and unalterable, but the
deductions, as both knew full well, might have to be
modified later.
  Finally Macdonald spread out his map and saw to
it that Reeves was cognizant of the lie of the land
around Thorpe Intak. The local men would guard the
roads, but it was possible to approach the steading
from the rear, and this was to be Reeves' job.
  "I may be quite mistaken, in which case you'll only
have the stars for company," said Macdonald, "but it's
just possible that an effort may be made to throw a
spanner in the works. There's more than one
adventurer abroad, including the one who removed
those orange rags this morning."
  Reeves grinned. "I get you. I'll do my best, Chief,
though the Mile-end Road's more my beat. Still, I've
scouted a bit in my time."
  Macdonald chuckled: "Maybe it is a bit steep to put
you on to this, Reeves, but I'd rather have you there
than the locals, taking it all around. I've a great belief
in your survival value, and you're the most suspicious
chap I know. Now I'm going over to find Bob Traske
at Carnton; if I get through with that fast enough, I'm
driving on to Slaidburn. I'll drive back by the road
behind Thorpe Intak, and I'll leave the car by the
Borwick turning and come down that old bridle path
which is marked here. I shall follow the line of the


                           256



wall over that rough pasture and then come down by
the thorn trees to the beck. I ought to reach the
boundary wall there by midnight ­ but I can't be
certain..."
  "O.K., Chief. I'll wait here until sunset and then go
up on that bike to the rear of the premises so to
speak... Put some of those apples in your pocket.
They're champion."























                         257



         CHAPTER SIXTEEN


  It was shortly after seven o'clock that evening that
Macdonald reached Bob Traske's "shop" on the
outskirts of Carnton. Traske was another member of
the potter's community; he had a cart and a nag, but
he also had a store. This latter was a small stone
building which had probably been built on farm
property long ago. It was now roofed by dilapidated
corrugated iron, and various sheds had been put up
against it on the lean-to principle. The whole
conglomeration of shoddy building stood in a yard of
which Traske was freeholder, and in this yard were
sundry piles of oddments ­ old metal, old wood,
bottles, broken furniture, rags and paper.
  Macdonald was terse and peremptory with Bob
Traske ­ a dirty fellow of heavy build and uncertain
age. The C.I.D. man told his status and business
abruptly and stated that he had a search-warrant. The
last-mentioned item made a considerable difference
to Traske's truculence ­ it was quite plain that he did
not want his premises to be searched. Macdonald told
Traske (although certain that he knew already) that
Gold had been detained by the police, and then that

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Gold had stated that he had sold a raincoat to Traske
the previous evening. Bob Traske agreed that that
was so, and produced a cheap raincoat bought in
Manchester. In one of its pockets there was still a
screwed-up ball of paper.
  Macdonald found that he had been right in one of
his hunches ­ when he had argued that Anthony
Vintner should have a good visual memory. It was
probable that Vintner had studied the scribbled notes
eagerly, hoping for information that would be of
profit to himself. There were some notes on the paper
which probably did deal with card tricks, because the
references to certain numbers had roughly scrawled
heart, diamond, club, spade symbols beside them. In
addition were the words "gold, silver, copper" as
Vintner had stated, and references to A, B and C, with
figures which might have been dates. All the
handwriting was illegible to a degree which made it
very difficult to decipher, and words and symbols and
figures were run together without punctuation and
without capital letters. It struck Macdonald that the
writer of these notes might have written thus illegibly
of intent; there was just enough written down to help
a man who could not trust his own memory, but not
enough to help any other person to make sense of the
scrawl. In addition to the script the paper was heavily
scored with "doodles," which might have been more
interesting to a psychologist than to a detective.
  Sitting in Hoggett's car, Macdonald tried to make
sense of some of the notes, ignoring those which

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referred to playing cards.
"goldaptXspt5silverbptouaug3l" might be interpreted
as Vintner had suggested: "Gold. A. point X:
September 5th" and refer to a meeting with the
potters at a prearranged spot. Macdonald wondered if
"point X" could be determined from the "doodles" at a
later date. "Silver. B. point O. Aug. 31st" seemed a
reference of a similar kind. Macdonald felt disposed
to believe that his earlier assumption about the
potters acting as dispersal agents for Ginner was
probably right. Gold himself, plus two associates
referred to in the notes as "Silver and Copper" might
well have been commissioned as messengers.
Remembering the promptness with which the orange
rags had been removed from the woodland path after
Gold's arrest, Macdonald had grounds for believing
that "Silver and Copper" were still watching in the
locality.
  Returning to the study of his scrap of paper,
Macdonald concluded that some of the numerals
were probably telephone numbers ­ a matter which
could be determined later. Finally there were some
further hieroglyphics which Vintner had read, quite
reasonably, as reminders of card tricks. Macdonald
deciphered one line as "trump card west's hand
k5714" and another as "east's 19k" followed by
"Sx1059."
  Having considered all these scribbles in the light of
what he admitted was an imagination akin to Mr.
Hoggett's own, Macdonald returned to police

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headquarters and was connected by telephone with
London with quite remarkable promptitude. He then
issued certain directions to Inspector Jenkins, C.I.D.,
and hung up the receiver shortly after 9 o'clock.
  Bord was still at the police station, and Macdonald
inquired if he would like a drive to Slaidburn.
  "What ­ this evening?" inquired Bord, slightly
startled by the chief inspector's evident intention of
continuing his researches well into the night.
  "Aye, this evening," replied Macdonald. "From
what I've seen, these potters have quite a system of
passing on information. Slaidburn's a tidy distance,
and I'm hoping to get there before information
received causes Mrs. Gold to move on again. We
mightn't find it so easy to catch up with her another
time. You know her by sight, don't you, Bord?"
  "Aye. I can swear to her. I saw her in court when
Cobley thought he'd got a plain case and found he
hadn't."
  "Right ­ then off we go. I make it via Hornby and
Clapham, and then leave the main road and up over
Clapham Moor. That right?"
  "That's about it," agreed Bord. "I'll just put through
a call to the constabulary over there."
  Later, as he and Macdonald set out, Bord said: "It's
a rough road, and a long pull. The fells on the top of
Clapham Moor are on the 1400 feet contour line."



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  "There's going to be a good moon, so it ought to be
a fine drive," said Macdonald.
  The road to Hornby lay through the farm country
Macdonald was beginning to know well; just before
Hornby they swung east toward Clapham, slowly
mounting from river level. After half an hour's
driving they turned right from the main road and
began a steep ascent up a secondary road, which soon
took them above the last pastures to the open fell. It
was dark now, though the sky in front of them was
paling toward moonrise, and as they drove
Macdonald was aware of the honey-laden scent of
heather on the breeze that blew in from the open
window. It was a long, steep pull and when he
reached the summit Macdonald pulled up.
  "I'm going to have at look at this ­ one minute will
neither make nor mar us," he said.
  It was a memorable sight on that remote fell-side;
the harvest moon, past the full now, was shedding a
white light over the rolling moorland, wave beyond
wave of heather, bilberry and rough pasture like a sea
whitened by the moonlight, with densest shadows
etched in the hollows. The stars were brilliant in the
cloudless sky, and Macdonald turned to see the
Plough in the northwest, the Pole star overhead, and
Cassiopeia and Gemini glittering in the north athwart
the sky, with Pegasus and Aries to the south. It was
moments like that which made up for the more
sordid commonplace of detection routine, he
meditated, as he got in the driving seat again.

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  Bord was sitting smoking, quite uninterested in the
moon light. "It's downhill now all the way," he said.
"One of the local men will be looking out for us at the
ford. We don't want to go right into Slaidburn."
  A young constable was waiting for them as Bord
had arranged and got into the car to direct them.
  "The woman you asked about is staying in a
cottage by Fell Foot Farm," he said. "It belongs to a
woman named Mrs. Hooves ­ quite a decent body.
She's lived there for years and we know nothing
against her. There's a lad home on leave from the
B.A.O.R. ­ he only came there today. That's the place,
along this track away to the right. There's still a light
in the kitchen window."
  Macdonald drew the car in to the grass verge and
pulled up.
  "Stay here and keep your eyes open in case anyone
tries to get away," he said to the constable. "The
inspector and I will go to the house."
  The two men walked quietly up to the cottage.
Macdonald knocked on the door close by the lighted
window and the door was promptly opened while a
cheerful voice said:
  "Come right in, Stephen lad. Whativer art tha­"
  The voice broke off on a note of frightened query,
and Macdonald had to hold the door to prevent it
being shut in his face.



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  "Mrs. Hooves?" he asked. "I have some to see Mrs.
Gold. I am sorry to come so late in the evening, but
I've had a long drive."
  The quiet, pleasant voice seemed to reassure the
little gray-haired woman at the door, but she still
stood firmly by the door.
  "What dost tha want?" she demanded. "Mrs. Gold's
my sister and she's none too well."
  "I am afraid I must ask to see her," persisted
Macdonald. "I am a police officer. Reuben Gold was
detained by the police today in Carnton and I wish to
inquire about him."
  A thin voice spoke from the kitchen, bidding
"Lizzie" to "let un in."
  Macdonald, with Bord behind him, entered the
little lamplit kitchen, and saw a thin, white-haired
woman with a frightened face staring up at him.
Macdonald remembered that Castleby had mentioned
her odd eyes ­ one blue and one gray.
  "Mrs. Gold?"
  She nodded and broke out: "What hast tha done?
Reuben's done nowt. Tha's nowt aginst Reuben."
  "I don't want to frighten you, and I'm not asking
you to tell me anything which would go against your
husband," rejoined Macdonald, "No wife can be asked
to give evidence against her husband in this country.
I want you to answer a question about something
which happened a long time ago. I can find out for


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myself, because all marriage certificates are kept, but
if you choose to tell me it will save time and so help
the law. I want to know if you were first married in
Kendal on the 5th of July, 1914?"
  Mrs. Gold stared at him, stared with fear in her
eyes, but she refused to answer. Her thin mouth shut
in a hard line; she was obstinately silent.
  In the distance, somewhere outside in the
moonlight, a man's voice was heard singing
unmelodiously "Roll out the barrel." The sound
added to the rigid fear of Mrs. Gold's face, but it
seemed to galvanize Mrs. Hooves into sudden life.
  "That's Stevie. Y'don't want him to hear all this,"
she said, and turned to Macdonald. "Her lad's hoom
on leave. Tha's a decent chap; tha won't spoil it for
him. Coom in here now ­ Ah'll tell tha what tha wants
in two shakes. 'Tis all the same now ­ but don't tha let
Stevie see no p'lice here. Come in t'dairy, do now."
  Bord was again surprised when Macdonald
acquiesced and followed Mrs. Hooves' urging arm
into a little candlelit dairy. Bord followed, and the
two big men stood listening.
  Mrs. Hooves back in the kitchen said:
  "Pull thiself together and say good night to t'lad.
He'll be ready for 'is sleep likely. Ah'll see to this here
and don't 'e fret luv; 'tis long past now. Here he be."
  They heard the outer door open and Mrs. Hooves
saying shrilly: "Why, Stevie, tha's late, luv. Thi
mother's tired like; 'tis a long day. So oop to bed wi'

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you both ­ and there'll be eggs for your breakfast
coom morning. Up tha goes, lad. I've had enough of t'
day and no mistake."
  In the dairy, Macdonald and Bord heard the heavy
footsteps mount the shallow stone stairs at the end of
the old cottage ­ Army boots folloked by the slip-slap
of felt slippers. Mrs. Howes called after them: "Aye,
get in to thi bed and sleep. Ah'll do fine doon here."
  A moment later, the little body opened the dairy
door and motioned to Macdonald and Bord to come
back into the kitchen. With a finger on her lip she
besought them to speak quietly as she whispered:
  "Tha'll not spoil his leave now? 'Tis a good lad, and'
only hoom today." She looked at Macdonald with her
bright eyes, a flush on her thin, wrinkled cheeks.
"Tha's reet aboot t' marriage. I towd her, they keeps
yon registers till doomsday. Tha can't do nowt ­ but
'twas all that time ago, and if so be she took Sarah's
name for t' Government Cards, what matter?"
  Bord was puzzled by all this, but Macdonald
understood it well enough. He said quietly, "She used
her dead sister's name for her second marriage, and
Gold doesn't know about the first marriage?"
  Mrs. Howes nodded. "Tis no use denying a' that.
Sarah died in 1916 and Susie took her name an' said
none would know ­ but they keeps those registries, I
do know. And see, I had Stevie here since he was a
lad, like ma oon he's been and none wiser. Tha'll
never goo and tell on that after all this time? Not

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that's any matter now, wi' Stevie grown and us all
gone gray. As for Reuben Gold, I reckon he's done
nowt that matters. Not a bad man 'es been to her, not
as men go."
  "And he still doesn't know ­ about Stevie?"
  Mrs. Howes twisted her apron between her fingers:
  "A can't tell, not now. She hid it, long eno'. Life was
cruel hard to her."
  "The boy's father left her ­ deserted her?"
  "Aye ­ and her carrying her child, wi' none to help.
Not even me she towd till long after. She was afeared
of our dad, for he was a hard man and he cast her off.
Mebbe he'd reason for anger ­ but young blood's
young blood, an' she toiled right hard for a
motherless girl."
  "That was at home, up near Kirkby Stephen?"
  "Aye. Tha knows. 'Tis a hard life up yonder. Tha'll
not mak trouble for my Susie now, not when she's
owd and Stevie a reet gout lad?"
  "The trouble won't be any of my making, Mrs.
Howes. You've done your best for me ­ and I'll do my
best for you."
  "Eh, 'tis t' lad I'm thinkin' on. Ah'd lie right enough
for t' lad ­ but when tha knows, 'tis no use lying."
  She looked at them, her hands folded in her apron,
bright-eyed and unafraid, and added:
  "As for yon Reuben, I don't think all that o' t'
potters, but he's not been a bad man to Susie and ah

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reckon it's not that black what tha has aginst 'im. Will
tha go, now? If Stevie came doon, it'd be trouble ­ and
reckon there's trouble enow in t' world without
asking fore more."
  "Aye, there is," agreed Macdonald somberly, and
continued: "Will you promise to try to keep your
sister here, in case she's needed? If, she runs away,
she'd only have the police after her."
  "Mebbe. I tell you straight I can promise nowt ­
but she won't go away while Stevie's hoom, poor lass."
Arms akimbo she faced Macdonald, independent,
fearless. "Thee men, tha makes trouble enow, tha
dost, and 'tis lasses like my Susie bear t' brunt. Ah've
no patience with tha, I tell tha straight! Police tha
may be, but tha might let ould troubles rest."
  Macdonald found a smile on his face; he liked the
gallant little gray-haired woman, fearlessly charging
him with trouble-making.
  "All right, Mrs. Howes ­ and thank you for your
help. I'll do my best for you ­ and for your lad. Good
night."
  He turned quietly to the door and Bord followed
him without a word.
  It was not until they reached the car that Bord
burst out: "Well, I'm damned! She's got a cool cheek,
telling us to let old troubles rest."
  Macdonald chuckled. "I liked her. She's straight
and shrewd. She'd got the sense to know it was no use
refusing to answer, and I liked the way she turned on

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us in the end. I could do with a few more women like
that. You know I felt more than a bit ashamed of
myself, Bord. There's something undignified in two
large chaps like you and me setting out to overawe a
little old woman like that."
  "If you had some of our routine jobs like
pig-killing and disposal of carcases and keeping
poultry off the black market, to say nothing of illicit
marketing of eggs and butter you might take a
different view," said Bord. "They'll diddle you every
time ­ and that's a fact. However, the point is ­ you
got what you came for?" Bord was complacent.
  "Aye. I tried out a guess based on a dirty piece of
paper I found in the late Ginner's coat pocket," said
Macdonald. "Here's the paper. Like to try it out
yourself ­ or shall I save you the trouble and tell
you?"
  "No. By heck you won't," said Bord. "If I'm diddled
I'll say so, but I'm not giving in without trying."
  They got back in the car and dismissed the
attendant constable who would continue to keep an
eye on the cottage, and Macdonald turned the car
north again to climb the fell road.
  Bord lighted his pipe and ruminated. "It's a case of
old sins coming home to roost," he said, and
Macdonald agreed.
  "Aye, old sins, coupled to the stupidity of a smart
Alec who thought it easy to make money out of his
knowledge of them. Ginner took a lot of trouble to

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avoid bombs, but, for all his smartness, he hadn't
enough wits to know that there's other explosive
material in the world in addition to what's
manufactured for armaments. Tempers up north are
said to take more rousing than tempers down south ­
but when they're roused they're formidable."
  As they mounted the crest of the moor again and
saw the vast expanse of heather-covered fell in the
moonlight, Macdonald reflected that this untamed
moorland had altered little enough in the centuries of
man's endeavor ­ but man himself had altered less
than the pundits were wont to claim.
  It was nearly midnight when Macdonald parted
from Bord in Carnton, and the C.I.D. man then set
out again driving westward, toward the road which
bounded the hills and rough pasture at the back of
Thorpe Intak. If Reeves were to have a sleepless night
on the chilly hillside, Macdonald was quite game
enough to share it with him. In the chief inspector's
mind was the thought that Anthony Vintner was
given to asking for trouble quite as much as anybody
else in the case, because his attitude to other people's
problems was the classical reaction of the rogue:
"Anything in this for me?"
  Whether Vintner had made his own interpretation
of the scrawl he found in Ginner's pocket, Macdonald
had no means of knowing at present, but he hazarded
a shrewd guess that Vintner had tried to profit by
other people's troubles in more ways than one.


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  Leaving the car safely parked off the roadside,
Macdonald set out on foot along a quiet by-road
parallel with the Lune. The road was bordered by low
stone walls and to the southwards gave a view right
across the valley to the southern fells, but on account
of its position on the hillside it also commanded a
great expanse of sky. The moon was in the zenith
now, shedding a bland white light, and the stars
seemed almost to flash in the clear, frosty air, some
blue, some yellow, some exceedingly white against
the void of a dark, cloudless sky, with a long train of
nebulae milkily drawn out in faint shining gossamer.
  After he had walked some hundred yards,
Macdonald stood still and stared and listened. His
eyes had accustomed themselves to moon and
starlight after having concentrated on the white
swathe made by his headlamps as he drove, and his
ears caught the sounds of the night. He walked on
quietly looking out for the wall and the row of
ancient thorns which marked the bridle path
connecting up this road with the parallel one some
half mile below it which ran through to Netherbeck.
The track was probably ages old, but had fallen into
disuse, and only occasional thorn trees marked the
path that pack-ponies had once taken down the valley
sides.
  Climbing a gate whose ancient hinges had long
been replaced by twists of rusted wire, Macdonald set
out over the rough pasture, downhill at first, and then
rising to the ridge above the steading. He moved

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slowly, pausing to listen and to look around. This was
sheep land, and Macdonald knew that it was possible
to blunder into a sleeping sheep which would rouse
the whole flock with its complaints. As he reached the
ridge of the hillock he was able to see right over the
intervening land to the steading, and he saw the
sheep, too, their fleeces pale, casting black shadows
in the moonlight. The things that interested him was
that the flock was on the move; slowly; sleepily they
were coming toward him ­ an unexpected thing for
sheep to do at night. The wind was blowing from the
west ­ from the direction of the sheep to where
Macdonald stood ­ and they had not spotted him yet;
they came on slowly, fussily, as though uncertain of
what to do. Macdonald guessed that somebody else
was over there, across the pasture, standing as he was
standing, waiting to hear if the flock would raise their
voices.
  A sound suddenly broke the stillness, surprisingly
abrupt and loud. An indignant blackbird had woken
up and was shouting its alarm call. This decided the
sheep; they began to hurry and they came on to
within a yard of Macdonald before they were aware of
him, and then they broke back; fussily, panicking, as
is the nature of sheep. Macdonald promptly sat down
and kept very still, anathematizing the silly sheep
quite unjustly; they might spoil the whole show, he
meditated; his show, of course ­ not the sheep's. After
a few minutes, during which the flock fell to grazing
on the higher ground, Macdonald moved away from

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them more to the line of the thorns, and soon found,
as he had expected, that he was in the path of a small
beck trickling down the slope. Resenting the fact that
he had now to squelch through marshy ground, he
held on his course until he reached the level and
stood on waterlogged ground by the old thorns where
he had agreed to meet Reeves.
  Reeves, however, was not there and Macdonald
stood still and cogitated.  Somewhere away to the
west on the higher ground above the steading,
someone had been moving cautiously. Their
movements had been enough to rouse the sheep but
not to frighten them into a rush; it had been
sufficient to wake a blackbird, and blackbirds
commonly roost in shrubs or hedgerows or gorse
bushes. Whoever was on the move must thus have
traversed part of the grassland where the sheep were
resting in a huddled flock and then turned toward the
hedgerow or gorse bushes further up the slope.
  The next thing that Macdonald heard was the
rising note of a curlew, and knew that another
sentinel had offered him information gratis. The
curlew roosts on the ground, preferably on rough
grassland: so the other intruder was pretty certainly
on the hillside, but not very far away. Standing in the
shadow of the thorns, Macdonald could see clearly
across the open level ground which lay between him
and the low stone wall which divided him from the
house. There was nothing in sight, but a moment
later he heard a stone dislodged and the sound was

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clear enough to locate ­ it came from the stone wall
at the back of the house. Macdonald decided to move
forward and made his way toward the wall. There was
only one door into the house and he decided that he
was going to get within sight of that door. He reached
the wall without mishap, and crouched beside it to
listen, conscious of footsteps beyond.
  It was then that the silence was rent by a sound
which was almost shattering after the preceding
stillness; it startled Macdonald with the sharp impact
of the totally unexpected. Just over the wall, the
hungry little donkey had scented the presence of one
whom its mind connected with fine fat carrots; and it
raised its head and hee-hawed with vigor.
  "Damn you! Shut up!"
  It was not only Macdonald who had been startled
by the donkey's vocal virtuosity. If the donkey's ears
were flapping, so were Macdonald's; it was not
Reeves' voice which had thus apostrophized the
donkey; neither was it the idiom of the potters.
Further than this Macdonald could not decide. Still
crouching ludicrously beneath the stone wall, he was
aware that the donkey was hopefully nosing in the
direction of his own head, but footsteps from the
grass-grown yard in front of the house made him
realize that someone was on the move there. Feeling
strongly akin to Bottom the weaver and using the
ass's head as cover, Macdonald raised his head and
peered between the long ears of his opposite number
and realized with some surprise that a light was still

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burning in Anthony Vintner's "studio." The next
moment the unknown in the yard came into collision
with an old tin can with an astonishing dividend in
the matter of noise. The donkey took to his heels,
Belinda bleated querulously, and a moment later the
door of the house opened and Anthony Vintner's
voice demanded:
  "Who the devil's there and what the hell do you
think you're up to?"
  His voice indicated that he was well pruned with
Dutch courage and prepared to have a row with
anybody.
  The answer came in a quiet propitiatory voice: "I've
brought you that bottle of whiskey. I was passing and
I saw your light; so I thought I'd come along and
leave it. Why the deuce can't you tie that damned
donkey up?"
  "The donkey's all ri'... more sensible than some
people I know. Come along in. Got something to
show you. Yes. Something to show you."
  The figure close by the house showed in silhouette
for a moment against the vaguely lighted door before
it entered the house and the door was shut.
Macdonald, listening intently, realized with
satisfaction that the bolt had not been shot. There
was no light in the kitchen either, save that which
shone in from the studio door. Anthony Vintner, true
to type, had but one lamp and no candles.


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  Macdonald made short work of climbing the wall,
and heard sounds in the paddock beyond which
caused his suspicious ears some inquiry before he
had analyzed the sounds to his satisfaction. The
explanation was: (1) Reeves; (2) Donkey; (3) Apples.
  Macdonald remembered Reeves' voice saying: "Put
some of those apples in your pocket. They're
champion." Macdonald had done so and forgotten all
about them. Reeves, who claimed later that every
Cockney understands donkeys, promptly put his
apples to suitable use, thereby giving Macdonald an
opportunity to make his way unattended to the
kitchen door. He opened the door soundlessly and
slipped inside into the stuffy kitchen. The further
door was just ajar, allowing a gleam of light to shine
in, and Macdonald made his way forward until he was
able to see through the wide crack at the hinge into
the further room, while he himself remained
concealed in the shadows.
  Anthony Vintner, swaying a little, was cleaning his
palette with a palette knife, working with the
clumsiness and absorption of the semi-drunk. His
visitor, standing by the table, presented a broad back
in silhouette.
  Vintner was talking garrulously and persistently.
"...Tell you I'm fed up. I've had more than enough of
this... Police all over the bloody place. I didn't want
to have anything to do with it, by God, I didn't. 'Snot
my fault. I didn't do anything. Serve the dirty dog
right ­ but I'm not going to stay here and be pestered.

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Got that?... Going to clear out. Yes, clear out and start
again. I didn't do anything."
  "Have a drink, old chap. You'll feel better if you
have a drink," suggested the other.
  "Not me... Want to make me drunk, do you? I'm
damned well not going to get drunk to please  you.
Oh, no. You've made a mistake... damn' big
mistake... trying to bully me. Won't do. You've got to
do what I say now. Yes."
  Between his slurred sentences he took strokes with
his palette knife, scraping the paint off the palette
and then cleaning his knife on the table-top with the
solemnity of a drunken man.
  "What do you want me to do?" inquired the other
wearily. "You said you wanted a bottle of Scotch ­
well, there it is."
  "Yes. Think that's enough, do you? I don't. You're
going to get me out of this. In your car. Police won't
stop your car. Oh, no. Police friends of yours. I know.
You talked to them in that cottage... said I was a bad
lot, I know. You poor flat, you're kippered. D'you
know that? Kippered."
  "No. I don't know it. You're drunk, man. You're
pretending to be important."
  "Pretending, am I? See that envelope? The letter's
not inside it any longer. Oh, no. I'm not that drunk.
Letter's quite safe. Ginner left his coat here. He must
have written you that letter before he was bumped
off. He left it. I read it. Got that?"

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  Still with the same automatic action the painter
went on cleaning his palette, while the man in front
of him breathed, slowly, heavily.
  Vintner went on obstinately: "You're going to get
me out of this ­ tonight. Tomorrow won't do. If I'm
here tomorrow I'm going to show the police that
letter. It's no use killing me ­ if you do, they'll still get
that letter. I thought of that. You're going to get me
out of this tonight. I'm fed up."
  "Look here, Vintner, don't be unreasonable. I can't
take you anywhere tonight. The police are patrolling
all the roads. If you move tonight, you're done for. I'll
do my best ­ obviously I'll do my best ­ but not
tonight. If you're caught bolting tonight you'll be
arrested ­ and once you're arrested you'll have a
precious poor chance. Be a sensible fellow and sleep
for a bit. I'll stay here with you. Come along, have a
drink and be sensible."
  There was the sound of a cork being drawn from
the whiskey bottle and the gurgle of the spirit
pouring into the glass. Macdonald still watched and
waited. Vintner suddenly threw his palette down and
slumped into a chair and fell to whimpering.
  "It's not fair. Always the same. I came here and I
tried. God knows, I tried... then that beast came and
pestered me. Said he'd tell everyone and get me
discredited... He'd got an I O U of mine and I'd
promised to help his beastly swindles. Why couldn't
he leave things alone?"


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   "Why couldn't he leave things alone? Dear God,
haven't I asked that? Just leave things alone... that
was all." The words burst from the other man as
though he couldn't contain them. "You're
complaining... that's all you're capable of.
Complaining. I stopped his damned blackmail ­
stopped it once and for all. Pull yourself together,
Vintner. You're shaking, man. Have a drink and
forget it. I'll get you away tomorrow. I'm a man of my
word. He found that out... too late. Drink up and
forget it!"
   The glass was in Vintner's hand before Macdonald
moved and opened the door. He took one of the
apples from his pocket and threw it, good and true,
so that the apple knocked the glass clean out of
Vintner's hand. The painter screamed, and as he
screamed Macdonald sprang forward and snatched
the whiskey bottle away from the other man's
outstretched hand. With a crash the table went over,
the lamp with it, and the report of a pistol barked out.
Then came the heavy thud of a falling body as
Macdonald snatched the flaming lamp up and flung it
out of the window. Reeves' voice called, "You all right,
Chief?" as he bent to smother the burning oil on the
floor, and all the time Anthony Vintner went on
screaming: "There wasn't a letter! I tell you there
wasn't a letter. Shand believed it all, but there wasn't
a letter."
   Reeves took the painter by the shoulders and
shook him until his teeth chattered. "That's enough

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from you. Be quiet, or I'll shake the teeth out of your
head."
  Macdonald, torch lamp in hand, was examining the
body on the floor.
  "Done the job properly, hasn't he?" inquired
Reeves, and Macdonald nodded.
  "Yes ­ right through his brain."
  "Saved the hangman a job ­ and good thing too,"
said Reeves, while Vintner went on sobbing to
himself:
  "Shand believed there was a letter, but there wasn't.
There never was a letter. I tried it on and he believed
it, but there wasn't a letter."
  Reeves suddenly sniffed: "Potassium cyanide,
Chief. I swear I can smell it."
  "Aye; it's in the whiskey ­ for Vintner," said
Macdonald.
  "Was that the way of it? Suicide and a forged
confession," said Reeves. "Well ­ it's been tried before
and doubtless it'll be tried again. They're all
optimists."
  And still Vintner whimpered his one refrain: "You
see there never was a letter."






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     CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


  It was nearly a fortnight later that Macdonald
spent a night at Netherbeck Farm. He had attended
the inquest and later the adjourned inquest, where
full chapter and verse had been produced to put the
verdict beyond doubt. The bodies of Gordon Ginner
and Barton Shand had both been buried, and the
Lunesdale farmers were busy plowing. The life of the
land was incomparably more important than the
deaths of two men who had never realized that tilling
is more fundamental to human needs than the
accumulation of money.
  The quartet sitting around the good wood fire at
Netherbeck was made up of Giles Hoggett and his
wife, the imperturbable Dr. Castleby (Macdonald was
always to remember him as "George"), and the chief
inspector himself. They had just had supper and now
they were waiting to hear Macdonald tell them just
how useful their mutual efforts at detection had been.
  "You know you had all the data between you,"
began Macdonald. "Speaking as a detective, I have
never been so spoon-fed in my life. It is your due that


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I should acknowledge, here and now, that you are all
three first-class witnesses, having accurate memories,
a power of detailed observation and a gift of narrative
which I have seldom found equalled in the
sophisticated south."
  Giles smiled happily; George accepted the bouquet
with urbanity; but Mrs. Hoggett spoke trenchantly.
  "Yes. We had all the facts and we couldn't make
anything of them. We're  not  detectives, none of us.
George states his facts and leaves it at that. Giles sees
a certain number of things and then uses his
imagination to account for them. I notice things
accurately ­ but I'm stumped when it comes to
putting the bits of the jig-saw together."
  "Well, let's go back to Hoggett's grand effort at
re-construction," said Macdonald. "It was almost
classic in style. I've noted it down verbatim, and I
shall preserve it as a model of its kind. 'We are
considering the death of a man who was murdered in
this valley. So far as the evidence goes, he was a
stranger here: a man concerned with certain frauds in
the industrial Midlands, yet the evidence shows that
he met his death at the hands of someone who knew
the conditions of this valley and could utilize that
knowledge. At the same time the murderer was
lacking in a sense of detail and of real understanding
of the inhabitants, for it did not occur to him that any
intelligent construction would be put on the theft of
various trivial objects from the cottage.' "


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  "Yes. I applauded that at the time," murmured
George, and Giles said:
  "I see now... I was really saying that the murderer
was someone who believed that I, personally, was a
fool of a farmer."
  "Aye, that's about it," said Macdonald cheerfully.
"Now let us consider Mrs. Hoggett's contribution,
which is more detailed and shows considerable
powers of inductive reasoning. She said: 'Have you
realized what was the murderer's initial mistake? The
thing which really gave him away was interfering with
Giles's wood pile and leaving the logs tumbled about.
If it hadn't been for that, Giles would never have gone
inside the cottage that day, or even if he had he
probably wouldn't have noticed that anything was
missing, because he wouldn't have been feeling
suspicious. The man who stole the chain and iron
dogs was not a careless person; he had swept the floor
and cleared the hearth, but he didn't know how to
clear hearths properly. Finally, he was the sort of
person who did not know that small valueless articles
would be missed ­ and that," added Macdonald, "took
us a good step further along what we might call the
'general enunciation.' "
  "It took you," murmured Mrs. Hoggett to her
knitting. "It didn't take us."
  "Well, for the Good Lord's sake, allow me some
results from nigh on thirty years' concentration on
reading evidence," said Macdonald. "You can do a lot


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of things I can't, Mrs. Hoggett, and I don't complain.
Every man to his own last. Now let's get on a bit. I
judged that I was safe in an original assumption that
the murderer was  not  'a scoundrel from the slums of
an industrial city,' as Hoggett's wishful thinking made
him conclude. The murderer was much too good at
utilizing certain features of Wenningby Barns and its
surroundings to be a slum product. He knew, for one
thing, where to replace the key of the cottage. He
knew all about Jacob's Buttery and the recess in the
bank and the willow roots, he knew all about the
power of the stream and used chains to make the
sack fast. He knew how strong salmon line is ­
though it doesn't look it. No. Not a slum-dweller ­ but
a man who regarded the cherished chimney fittings at
Wenningby Barns as so much junk; also a man who
didn't consider that the person who carried those
iron dogs down the brow would value them."
  "Oh, come; he couldn't have known I carried them
down," put in Giles.
  Macdonald considered. "I may be being irrelevant,
but as a Londoner I'd like to claim the privileges of
that status," he said. "We have a museum, called the
Victoria and Albert. It contains, among many other
relics, a completely furnished cottage chimney, with
chains and cranes and other adjuncts. I, who have
studied it, know that those iron dogs were no part of
the original equipment. Any farm or cottage dweller
hereabouts would know it, too. Those iron dogs were
a personal touch, Hoggett ­ but they conveyed

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nothing to one who was unfamiliar with the
equipment of an ancient open chimney."
  "Yes," murmured George to the fire. "It's a nice
point."
  "Having considered the character of the unknown
murderer to some extent," went on Macdonald, "let us
note a few points about the dead man, Ginner. He
may have had his good points, but they were not
obtrusive. I knew he was a swindler so far as the law
was concerned, and I had a good reason for believing
that he was a swindler in a viler sense ­ that of
obtaining money from elderly women by promising
to marry them. But Ginner was not a rogue who used
violence; he was one that lived by his wits. Reeves
found plenty of evidence that Ginner was a coward,
because he ran away from London Civil Defense
duties when the bombing began. In other words,
Ginner sought profit without the element of personal
danger ­ he was a trickster and confidence man. Now,
I have frequently found that that is the type who tries
blackmail, and it's worth remembering that a man
who is being blackmailed has been known to commit
murder to rid himself of his tormentor and the fear of
exposure."
  "And that was why George's story of Mrs. Gold's
son interested you," murmured Giles, but Kate put in:
  "You're jumping at conclusions. What I want to
know is the process of detection in detail, step by
step."


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  "I'm afraid that it doesn't always work out like that,
Mrs. Hoggett," rejoined Macdonald. "I try to emulate
scientific method. In actual fact I often resemble one
of the less methodical birds ­ say, a starling ­ who
hops about picking up another birds' food and
imitating their voices. In a narrative like this, I tend
to make the detective method much more orderly
than it is in actual fact, because I omit the irrelevant
and the unsuccessful gropings. Your husband is quite
right in saying that I seized on Dr. Castleby's story
with avidity ­ and that brings us to the potters."
  "Aye, the potters,"' said George. "I never believed
that Gold was the murderer ­ but I couldn't produce
any sound reasons for my conviction."
  "Nevertheless, he was such an A-1 suspect he had
to be taken seriously," said Macdonald. "Points
against him: the famous orange curtains; the mention
of a 'pottery' and a row in the lorry driver's evidence,
the fact of his mobility, and the fact that his wife, who
had accompanied him for years, had disappeared.
Queries: Could Gold, who had never been seen in the
valley, know 'the usual place' where the cottage key
was kept? Would he have disturbed a good woodpile
by inexpertly taking logs from the middle instead of
from the top? Could he swim? Finally, could he cast a
fly, as the old man in the coat was said to have done?
In my own judgment, men of the nomad type have
their own sort of canning, but they always use it in
their own environment. Unlike Dr. Castleby, I was
quite willing to believe that Gold was capable of a

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crime of violence, but if he had committed one I
believed it would have been 'on his own beat,'
somewhere on the lonely fell-side where a man's body
might be hidden with a minimum of trouble. The
river valley is alien territory to Gold, and the river,
not an ally, but a fearsome enemy."
    He turned to Giles Hoggett. "You gave me a very
interesting exposition concerning the potters, and
you said, 'They each have their own territory which
they work on their own like robins, keeping others off
it.' "
    "Aye," said Giles. "So I did. I'd no idea I'd been so
useful."
    Mrs. Hoggett's exclamation was as near a snort as
made no difference.
    "Sorry," she said apologetically, "but that's just like
Giles and his philosophy. He does  know things ­ and
that's all there is to it. Wouldn't you like a cup of tea,
Mr. Macdonald? I'm sure you need one. I think your
patience with us is the most remarkable thing about
you."
    "Thank you very much, I should," replied
Macdonald. "but don't think I undervalue your
husband's assistance. He practically solved this case
for me and Reeves ­ but he didn't realize that he'd
done so."
    Kate brought the tea tray in, and George quelled
his low-toned mirth as Macdonald continued:


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  "Next, there was Vintner. Here was an able artist
but a man who had no stability of character at all. He
had a motive to commit the murder, because he
feared and hated Ginner. He had the necessary
knowledge of the locality and he was a good
swimmer. Nevertheless, I didn't believe he'd done it
for the very reasons Mrs. Hoggett adduced ­ he is
chronically untidy and unmethodical and he hasn't
the determination to carry anything through. At the
same time, I did believe that if he were arrested and
charged he would certainly have been found guilty.
The evidence was all circumstantial, but the
circumstances were dead against him. That sort of
bloke," added Macdonald meditatively, as he sipped
his tea, "is an absolute menace to a detective. He
simply asks to be arrrested, and the very fact that he
lies, feebly and unconvincingly, annoys one enough
to go against one's better judgment and arrest him.
My favorite nightmare is that I shall one day produce
convincing chapter and verse to charge a man like
Anthony Vintner, and that I shall be unable to prove
he's innocent before he gets himself hanged."
  George grunted in acquiescence. "I follow that," he
said. "My own nightmare is that I shall disregard the
moans of of an old chronic and that he will die on me
before I realize he's really in danger."
  "You're neither of you in the least likely to do
anything of the kind," said Mrs. Haggett firmly. "You
both of you suffer from excess of conscience, not lack
of it. But it's quite true," she added, turning to

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Macdonald, "that I was glad you looked obstinate.
Obstinacy is a valuable quality in intelligent people."
  "Aye," murmured Giles. "That is it. I'll remember
that. Go on, Macdonald. What about little Mr.
Willoughby?"
  "Yes. Mr. Willoughby. He was a fine suspect. He'd
got almost every qualification, I found him in
flagrante delicto with your old coat, Hoggett, and he
was in the wool trade. Aye, he was a grand red
herring. You see, if he was speaking the truth, he gave
me the case complete, but I'd no means of knowing if
he were speaking the truth. He told me about how he
went on the shilla bed and saw  Shand, when Shand
didn't see him, and he saw the man in Hoggett's old
coat that very same evening, having seen two men,
whom I took to be Vintner and Ginner, the evening
before. And the date he gave, quite positively, was the
first week in September when Shand claimed he was
away in Derbyshire."
  Macdonald paused, and then added: "That brings
us down to brass tacks. The most damning evidence
Shand gave against himself was when he told Hoggett
in the fold-yard that he (Shand) had seen the old man
in the preposterous coat. He said it was before the
weather broker and that he'd been away all the first
week in September. Blackthorn reminded him he'd
been away for the last four days in August, and Shand
agreed and said it was a couple of days before that he
saw the old coat ­ that is, on August 26th."


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  There was silence, and Giles Hoggett said: "Well,
why not? He could have­"
  "He couldn't!" cried Mrs. Hoggett victoriously. "At
last  I've seen something for myself. George and the
children were staying at the cottage then and the coat
was there all the time they were.  No one  could have
taken the coat while the children were there, because
they'd have noticed if it had gone."
  "Aye. So they would," agreed Giles amiably. "Very
bright of you; Kate. But you  are  bright," he added
proudly.
  "Well, having acknowledged in full my debt to the
Hoggett-Castleby contingent, I had better put in a
word for C.I.D. routine work," said Macdonald.
"We're a very industrious organization ­ Mrs.
Hoggett would approve of us in that way. We
collected chapter and verse about Ginner and his
early life, which led to the successful work done by
Reeves and Hoggett in Chapelton-Lonsdale. We learnt
that Ginner was probably familiar with the general
area, and later we used our searchers in Somerset
House to complete the case. Meantime, I followed the
trail of the orange rags and proved to my own
satisfaction that Gold had something to hide. I felt
pretty certain that Gold had acted as go-between for
Ginner in communicating with his friends, and that
the trail of rags was to guide Ginner to a
meeting-place in the dales. Finally came the
unexpected incident about Vintner finding Ginner's
coat and the paper in the pocket. The chief item on

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that paper was a scrawl which Vintner interpreted as:
'West's hand. K.5.7.1.4,' preceded by the words 'trump
card.' As you can see, there are no capital letters and
no stops, the words and numerals being run together.
I read it as 'West. Shand K.5.1.14.' For the K I
hazarded Kendal, because I knew Ginner had known
the place. It thus read: 'Trump Card. West. Shand.
Kendal 5.7.14' ­ and when I learnt that Mrs. Gold's
maiden name had been West I believed I had
interpreted Gordon Ginner's trump card. If he  knew
that Shand had married Sarah West on July 5, 1914,
and that both parties to the marriage were still alive
but married bigamougly, it accounted for Shand
losing his temper and killing a rogue who was trying
to blackmail him, and for Mrs. Gold going into hiding
with her sister at Slaidburn."
  "It sounds quite simple, when you relate it," said
Giles Hoggett. "If I'd been more careful I might have
thought it out myself... No ­ I shouldn't have... I
haven't the application to detail. My routine work is
very poor."
  "Your routine work is very good," said Macdonald,
"but you haven't learnt to co-ordinate yet. Now let us
consider all the facts I had gathered about Shand.
First, Hoggett met Shand coming up from the dales
early on the first day the floods were out. Shand was a
fly purist in the matter of fishing, I gather. What
Hoggett calls a 'gentlemanly fisherman' ­ yet there he
was, out with his gear, on a day when no trout would
notice a fly and the water was too high to cast one.

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What has he been doing? Inspecting something? I
didn't know, neither did Hoggett. Next, Shand came
and visited Hoggett at the cottage that evening. One
thing was evident ­ he thought Hoggett was a simple
soul who could be instructed and condescended to.
Having a suspicious mind I watched him carefully as
he thumbed those books. Shand knew that the thefts
had been reported to the police, and he knew that
even in rural areas the police take fingerprints. Was
he supplying an obvious explanation for the presence
of his own fingerprints, supposing he had been in the
cottage on other than lawful occasions? It was a
possibility."
  "But you said that nearly all the surfaces in the
cottage had been wiped clean of prints," put in Giles
Hoggett, and Kate said:
  "Haven't you ever said to yourself: 'Did I really do
everything I meant to do before I came away? Did I
put out that last cigarette, and lock the windows and
lift things off the floor in case of floods?' How often
have I gone back again to the cottage to make
certain? I can quite see a man saying: 'Did I really rub
all my fingerprints off?' "
  Macdonald nodded. "That's the idea. So many men
have given themselves away because their nerves
gave them no peace until they had gone back to make
sure. However, that was only surmise. What was more
certain was Shand's insistence that the potters were
innocent of the thefts ­ an odd attitude for a
land-owner. Why did he want to protect the potters? I

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hazarded an answer to that when I heard Dr.
Castleby's evidence about Mrs. Gold's first marriage.
It was sheer guesswork, but I felt that something was
needed to account for Shand's championship of the
potters. Next, Shand's attitude to Vintner ­ and there
I felt I was on to something. Hoggett, if you wanted to
evict an undesirable tenant who doesn't pay his rent,
what would you do about it?"
  "Put it in the hands of my solicitor," replied Giles.
"The process of the law is quite straightforward and
well known to every landlord." '
  "Yes, but I found Shand, who was a very
'de-haut-en-bas'  type, going to call on Vintner
personally to argue with him about evicting him,
even preparing to offer to forgo arrears of rent; and
Vintner saying that Shand bullied him. It all seemed a
bit odd to me. Since Vintner had neither paid his rent
nor kept his land in order, the matter of eviction was
simple, yet here was an intolerant landlord like Shand
havering over it. It looked to me as though Vintner
had some leverage, some knowledge, which enabled
him to sound so certain when he told me that Shand
couldn't turn him out. Well, there it was. Ginner had
stayed with Vintner and Vintner seemed to have
some sort of hold over Shand, and Shand was busy
telling people that Vintner was a rogue. It was plain
to any intelligent person that Vintner was an ideal
scapegoat. That's why I had the approach to his house
watched so carefully. Whoever the murderer
happened to be (and I didn't believe it was Vintner) it

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would be a most satisfactory solution if Vintner
committed suicide and left some drunken scrawl
acknowledging his guilt."
  "I don't follow one point here," put in Giles. "How
was it that if Shand felt that Vintner had a hold over
him Shand risked accusing Vintner of the thefts when
we were talking in the cottage?"
  "You must remember that that was before the body
was found," said Macdonald. "Shand had every
season to believe the body would not be found, and at
that time he did not know Scotland Yard was after
Ginner. Shand's feeling was that he had successfully
disposed of Ginner, and the sooner Vintner was
discredited and cleared out the better. I argued that
Shand wanted Vintner to be under suspicion in case
any inquiry ever arose about Ginner ­ and having
taken up his stand by accusing Vintner, Shand
thought it wiser to be be consistent."
  "Well, that's a rough outline of my own gropings
toward a reconstruction," said Macdonald. "The end
came while the case was still thoroughly untidy, but
Shand made a desperate bid to straighten things out.
He was in a miserable position, poor wretch. He had
killed a blackmailer and thought he had been
successful. Then, because of Hoggett's persistence,
Scotland Yard heard of the iron dogs and came and
found the body. Shand made another mistake here.
He let me know that he had been out on the fell-side
watching at eight o'clock on a Sunday morning. He
must have used binoculars to see all that he did from

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that distance ­ again, a bit odd. Next, Vintner let
Shand know that he (Vintner) knew there was some
connection between him and Ginner. Vintner is
cunning enough. He thought out the idea of
pretending he had found a letter from Ginner
involving Shand. The only surprising thing to me is
that Vintner hasn't got himself murdered long ago for
his beastly tricks."
  "I hope he doesn't get murdered in Lunesdale," said
Mrs. Hoggett hastily, and Macdonald replied:
  "I can assure you he won't have any opportunity of
doing that for a long time to come. He suppressed
evidence which he ought to have given, and his last
tour de force insured him a reasonable retirement at
His Majesty's expense. Now for the final exposition,
which includes ascertained facts obtained from Gold,
Vintner, Mrs. Gold, Mrs. Soper, and last, but not least,
Somerset House.
  Gordon Ginner, when a boy of 15, saw a married
pair leaving a Registry office in Kendal and learned
their names out of curiosity, because they looked an
odd pair to him. Young Shand, then a lad of no
fortune, married Susie West and later deserted her.
Some years later, Susie married Reuben Gold, using
the name of her dead sister, Sarah West. Susie also
sent home a report of her  own death, so that when
Shand made guarded inquiries he learnt that the girl
he had married was dead, and he also married again,
being now a prosperous manufacturer. There it might
all have rested had not Gordon Ginner, with an

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uncannily good memory, seen Mrs Gold at a café by
the roadside and by some freak recognized her ­ and
said so. I think the thing which caused him to
recognize her is that she has one blue eye and one
gray. Then, in August of this year, Ginner came up
here to hide and stayed with Vintner and heard about
and saw Barton Shand. Then the stage was set. Ginner
attempted blackmail, and at the same time busied
himself in getting into touch with his swindling
associates through the medium of Gold, whom he
bribed. When Mrs. Gold saw Ginner again, she
persuaded her husband to take her to her sister's in
Slaidburn.
  "Ginner certainly used the cottage, obtaining
information about it from Vintner, who  knew  that
Ginner had met Shand there. The rest can be argued
from the evidence you know; Shand killed Ginner and
hid his body in Jacob's Buttery, trying to use the
bogie to transport the body, and finding, as Reeves
did, that it was impracticable. Shand made a good
many mistakes, none of which would have mattered
had his original argument held good ­ that the body
would never be found. After he abandoned the bogie,
he left it in the dales, because he forgot it. Gold saw
him move it later ­ and Gold guessed for himself,
when he had time to think it over, that it was Shand
who stole the waders and the brogues, in order that
his own footprints should not be identified, and it
was Shand who hid the waders under the wall of
Middle Upfield."

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   "And it was Mr. Shand who wore my coat," said
Giles, as though that were the most surprising point
of all.
   "Aye. It was a good idea, mark you. Shand didn't
want to be seen on Mr. Hoggett's land, nor yet by
Jacob's Buttery, and the disguise was a good one. No
one recognized him, though he was seen by a variety
of pebple, and he was enabled to spy out the land and
make his plans."
   Mrs. Hoggett sat forward, her elbows on her knees,
chin in hands, brooding.
   "The most interesting part of it all is that the
evidence gave a clear idea of the type of man the
murderer must be ­ and yet we never saw it. We
practically told Mr. Macdonald that the murderer was
fairly prosperous, that he wasn't used to manual
work, that he knew Lunesdale but was not of
Lunesdale, that he was careful but slipped up because
he didn't know our ways ­ and even then, we never
spotted it."
   "There are two reasons for that," replied
Macdonald. "One is lack of training in reading
evidence. It seems so easy, but it's really an expert
job. The other is this: when a person is part of a
familiar world, you just accept that person. Mr.
Shand? Oh, yes, you laughed at him a little because he
was pompous and self-opinionated and thought he
was so much superior to the farmer. Hoggett said:
"He's not a bad landlord. I've known worse ­ a, sort of


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'irritated toleration,' to use his own phrase. But
someone 'from away,' like myself, sees you all in fresh
perspective."
  "I shall put those iron dogs back in the river," said
Giles Hoggett meditatively, and Macdonald put in:
  "Then may I send you some more proper iron dogs
such as there are in that chimney at the V and A? It'd
be good for you to accept something which came
from a London junk shop and yet belonged in the
cottage."
  "Thank you very much," said Mrs. Hoggett. "We
should like to have them."
  "And what can we give you in return?" asked Giles.
"We should like you to have something to remember
us by."
  "I don't think I'm likely to forget you, Hoggett, but
since you've made such a kind offer, in addition to all
your noble hospitality, would you give me that little
English grammar in the Latin tongue which belonged
to your grandfather Ramsden?"
  "It's here, Macdonald. I've brought it for you," said
Hoggett. "You see, I saw the way you looked at it and
held it, and I was a bookseller once, before I turned
farmer."
  Macdonald took the shabby little leather-bound
book in his hands and rubbed his fingers
appreciatively along the raised sewing bands at the
back.


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  "Thank you, Hoggett. I didn't know my
covetousness had shown in my face, but your routine
work then, as ever, was excellent."

                        THE END

























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