Nobody could possibly call the outhouse comfortable. Nor was life easy for Nicholas in sleeping there. Though he made his bed look slept in and was back in it before he was called he was quite certain that nobody at The Bull believed he slept there. Then there was the problem of the Home Guard, it was awkward for him after an evening exercise to slip away. It had been his custom, because he lived in The Bull, to have a last drink with the other men, and, though he was sure they would not meaningly spread gossip, it was hardly likely that the way he legged it every evening in the direction of the Old House would escape detection, especially as it was now light until close on midnight. It was a miracle really that no gossip had yet reached Clara. It was certain he must get Judy away and that meant getting Miss Rose away. It was all going to take a bit of manoeuvring. To-night, after his talk with Doctor Mead, he did not settle down to sleep as soon as he had laid out his mattress. Instead he took out a pencil and paper and began to write. He was disturbed by the creaking of the door and, looking up, he saw Judy. She was wearing a dressing-gown and pyjamas, and her hair, less sleek than usual, stood round her head like a halo. Nicholas eyed her sternly.
“Young ladies don’t come into gentlemen’s bedrooms in their night things. I am a sensitive man and I have got my reputation at the works to think about.”
Judy sat down on the mattress beside him.
“Don’t be an ass! And if you want to know, I’ve just as many things on now as I had in the daytime. I came to tell you that I don’t think you’ll be able to sneak up here much longer.”
“Why? Has she heard something?”
“Yes. Our beloved little Desmond. It’s extraordinary the way that child only seems to hear and see things that nobody wants him to hear or see. When he was going to bed to-night he called you the gentleman who came through the hedge. Fortunately, as far as I can make out, Clara just thought it was one of his crazy remarks. But he’s a persistent child, he’s sure to repeat himself. Great-grandfather going into a hole in the ground has become a kind of theme song. So might you.”
Nicholas frowned at the paper in his hand.
“How could a child that goes to bed at about seven and gets up long after I’ve left possibly know that I sleep here?”
Judy hugged her knees.
“That’s the queer thing about Desmond. I suppose because he doesn’t use his senses like other people he gets more acute in other ways. I guess he saw the hole, and something of you left there; a piece of thread off your coat, or a button, or you might even have dropped a handkerchief, but Desmond read the sign just like gipsies do, and, without saying anything or even perhaps thinking it, he subconsciously registered that you arrived that way. Anyway, the little dear knows.”
“Let him. I shall go on sleeping here until you and Miss Rose are out of the house, even if dear Clara has to know that I do it. I shall tell her it’s love for you. A new form of gallantry.”
Judy looked at the paper in his hand.
“Taken to doing your letters here? I must try and get you a desk. And maybe presently we can get water laid on.”
Nicholas glanced down at the paper.
“Since you are here you might help me with this. It’s a kind of examination paper, things I want to find out. One. What things are there in common between the deaths of the two Formers and Mr. Jones? Two. If there is anything in the world that could make people seem to have died of old age when they didn’t. What is it and where could it be got hold of? Three. If Clara is never going to benefit by the will why should she want the Formers out of the way?”
Judy peered over his shoulder.
“Have you got any answers yet?”
“Doctor Mead gave me one about Mr. and Mrs. Former. He said the idea that either of them was ill came originally from Clara. Then, of course, there’s another, they both died following the injections.”
Judy shook her head.
“That’s no good. I can stand up in any witness-box and swear to the insulin injection. There was nothing wrong with that nor with the way she gave it.”
Nicholas frowned at the paper.
“All the same, I’m going to put those points down. Now we come to question two. You’ve worked in a hospital, can’t you think of anything?”
“I shouldn’t have thought there could be anything. You had poor Mr. Jones cut up to see what he died of, and Doctor Mead has had a post-mortem held on Mrs. Former, and everybody says it was old age in both cases.”
“With reservations. The vet couldn’t really say why Mr. Jones should have died, and Doctor Mead not only couldn’t see why the old lady died but he was surprised about Mr. Former.”
“But Mr. Former had a bad heart. Anybody might die of that.”
“Yes, but when I spoke to Doctor Mead just now he said that though he had a bit of a heart he’d hoped it would last him for years. However, I’ll leave that question and come to question three. Any views about that?”
Judy hugged her knees tighter and rested her chin on them.
“You say she gained nothing by the death of the two Formers.”
“Nor would she by Miss Rose’s.”
“But does Desmond?”
“Yes, when he’s eighteen.”
“Then there could be an answer. I think Clara would be capable of doing anything for Desmond. She’s kind of fierce about protecting him.”
Nicholas shook his head.
“That’s no good. During Miss Rose’s lifetime there’s only a money grant for Desmond’s education. Anyhow he can’t touch a penny until he’s eighteen. Obviously, if old Former had lived, he’d have seen his only great-grandson decently educated, and both Clara and the boy would be living buckshee, so there was no possible point in bumping the old man off. If she was ever going to do it, somewhere near the time when he inherited the money would be the moment, and then bump off all three.”
“Might be a bit obvious.”
“Yes, but there would be sense in it and there’s none now, and yet I’m as sure as I’m sitting here that there’s been something very queer going on, and, though he wouldn’t say so outright, Doctor Mead thinks that there was. I let him know I was going to snoop and he gave me his blessing.”
Judy rubbed her fingers through her hair.
“Goodness, I do wish we didn’t both feel suspicious. Here’s the post-mortem over and the funeral will be over the day after to-morrow, and we might have settled down to some sort of domestic life, but here’s us with our noses still to the trail.”
He spoke gently.
“Yours needn’t be. Nothing’s likely to happen to Miss Rose just for a day or two. Why don’t you move? After all, these people are nothing to do with you.”
Judy peered at him through the growing darkness of the outhouse. But even in that light he could see the spark in her eye.
“I suppose I’m going to spend the whole of my acquaintance with you explaining that I’m not the sort of girl who backs out of things just because I don’t happen to like them.”
He rubbed her hair the wrong way.
“All right, my little lioness. The gentleman didn’t mean any harm, don’t bite him.” His voice changed. “Seriously, Judy, I feel I’ve got to dig around in this business and I don’t know where to start. Where do you advise me to begin? At question one, or question two, or question three?”
Judy was wishing that he would rub her hair again, but she kept any suggestion of that thought out of her voice.
“What connection is there between the deaths of the Formers and Mr. Jones? Then there’s that one about what could have killed them, and then there’s the motive. Have you got even a gleam of light on any one of them?”
Nicholas leant back against the wall.
“I feel one and two are really one question. I mean, if it was possible to find anything that looked like old age, then I suppose you could think of some connecting link between the deaths. There’s just one possible idea, and, goodness knows, it’s pretty vague. Clara’s husband had a chemist’s shop which was bombed. The morning after the bombing she went in and she picked up things that weren’t ruined.”
“Goodness! Aren’t you the smart sleuth? However did you find that out?”
“She told me. She said that she only saved oddments, cakes of soap and cotton wool, but one never knows.” Judy sighed.
“I should think it’s a case of one never will. Even suppose she picked up a quart of prussic acid she’s hardly likely to confide in you.”
“No, but there are just a couple of outside chances on that. First of all to have a talk with the wardens, if possible with the ones in charge of that incident. They keep pretty good files, they might remember what was supposed to be in the shop, and, secondly, I thought you might search her room.”
Judy’s voice came out of the darkness with an amused note in it.
“Now, isn’t that nice? I should just love to do that. Open all the drawers and the boxes and then get caught red-handed and be reported to the works as a thief.”
“Well, it can wait. There’s not much point in your doing it until you know what you’re looking for.”
“Oh, how I agree with you! There’s quite a difference between looking for a quart of prussic acid or several containers of weed-killer.”
Nicholas refused to be thrown off his trend of thought. “There’s another thing you might do. You might make a bit of a friend of Mrs. White. I’ve always had a feeling that that woman hasn’t said quite all she felt.”
Judy got up.
“I suppose I ought to be going. I had a hell of a job getting down, the stairs creaked so, but, fortunately, Clara sleeps heavily, she gets up terribly early and I expect she’s tired.”
Nicholas got up too.
“I expect you’re tired.” He put a casual arm round her shoulder and sniffed at her. “You smell very nice.”
For one second Judy had a thought of relaxing and leaning against him. What on earth would he say, she wondered, if she let herself go and put her arm round his neck and kissed him? Then the almost certain knowledge of what he would say pulled her together. She could hear his cool, collected voice, “Dear me! This is a very unexpected orgy, isn’t it?” She gave him a little push.
“Go to bed. I’m like that flower stock that only smells at night. People come from miles around to smell me.” She put her finger on the door and began gently easing it open. “Good night, Detective Inspector Parsons. I’ll get down to being a buddy of Mrs. White’s to-morrow.”