Later that afternoon Holt conferred with Inspector Hyde in his hotel room.
‘I haven’t met Ashley Milton,’ Hyde said. ‘What’s he like?’
‘Conceited. Clever,’ Holt answered. ‘With great difficulty I restrained myself from punching his nose. He has a maddening habit of talking down to you.’
‘Sounds rather like Vance Scranton would have become in another twenty years,’ Ruth said. ‘Did they know one another?’
Holt nodded. ‘All too well, so it seems. That’s what Milton wanted to see me about. It appears he had a very good motive for wanting to kill the lad, and he thought it would be a good idea to clear himself with me and explain that, despite provocation, he didn’t commit the murder.’
‘Go on, Holt.’
‘Milton says that young Scranton was blackmailing him.’
‘Does he indeed?’ Hyde sank his chin on to his chest and sucked at his pipe. ‘It sounds ugly – but credible. Anything in writing, by any chance?’
‘Yes, some letters. Ashley Milton wrote them when he was a young man. There was a rather mucky affair with a very young girl.’
‘A minor?’ Hyde asked.
‘Yes. She was fifteen. Somehow or other Vance got hold of these indiscreet letters and put the bite on Milton.’
‘For how much – did he tell you?’
‘Nearly two thousand pounds.’
The Inspector pursed his lips in a silent whistle. ‘No wonder he’s scared of being suspected of murder! There’s a real motive there …’
‘But it seems to fit together, doesn’t it? That was Milton in Vance’s study last night, and it’s fair to assume that he was looking for the blackmail letters. Did he offer any proof?’
‘That he was being blackmailed, do you mean? Or that he didn’t murder Vance?’
‘Did he offer any proof of either?’
‘Well, he showed me the cheque stubs of the sums he’s been paying Vance over the past two years or so. As for his alibi, he says he was tinkering about on his boat on the night of the killing.’
‘That wasn’t the sort of night one would choose to tinker about with one’s boat—’
‘He didn’t say he went out to sea in it.’
‘Just as well for him – there was thick fog! What type of craft is it?’
Holt shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know much about them myself, but I think “luxury motor yacht” would be about the right description. It’s the sort of thing you see anchored in the harbour at Monte Carlo. Milton showed me a colour photograph hanging on the wall of his lounge – sumptuous place he has, above The Golden Peacock.’
‘We’ll have some discreet enquiries made into the private life of Ashley Milton!’ Hyde promised. ‘We’ll find out more about his luxury yacht, and we’ll also check what his sources of income are, apart from The Golden Peacock. From what you’ve told me, it seems he’s living it up rather grandly on the proceeds of one restaurant, especially if the Scranton boy was dipping into the till from time to time.’
‘Yes, I see what you mean. But, although Milton seems to have had a motive for shooting Vance, we’re not absolutely certain that it was Vance who was killed, are we? If Vance is still alive, Milton could well be telling the truth.’
‘I suppose Milton couldn’t have killed the wrong man by mistake, could he?’ Ruth suggested. ‘I mean, could he have thought it was Vance who was in the study?’
The two men thought this over.
‘It’s a distinct possibility, Ruth,’ said Hyde seriously. ‘If the victim had his back to the murderer and the shot was fired as he turned round …’
‘But we must keep an open mind, eh, Inspector – until we’ve got definite proof?’ said Ruth with a delightfully cheeky grin.
‘Quite so,’ said Hyde with a smile.
Holt was pressing his fingertips to his temples in worried concentration. ‘One thing doesn’t tally. If Milton was looking for blackmail letters last night, and if it was a sack I heard being dragged across the floor … well, they must have been incredibly heavy letters!’
‘Perhaps he put them in suitcases,’ said Ruth brightly, ‘intending to search through them at his leisure.’
‘If they’d been suitcases he’d have carried them in the normal manner,’ Holt pointed out.
‘Then how about letters in boxes, or slipped between the pages of books—’
‘Books!’ Holt jumped to his feet and hugged her. ‘I think you’ve hit it, Ruth! That’s exactly the sound a pile of books would make … heavy books, dragged in a sack to prevent them slipping out of the holder’s grasp! By Jove, I wonder where this leads to! Now, supposing it was the books themselves that Milton wanted to examine …’ The telephone rang and Holt waved impatiently to Ruth to answer it. ‘If it’s Abe Jenkins I’m not available,’ he said crisply, going over to the window and staring out to sea.
It was some seconds before he realised that there was a deathly silence in the room. He turned and saw that Hyde was staring at Ruth.
‘It’s for you,’ she said in a strangled tone. ‘A man’s voice … He says he’s Vance Scranton!’
‘I don’t believe it!’ Holt exclaimed. In one stride he was beside Ruth and had seized the phone from her hand. He put his palm over the mouthpiece and looked quickly at Hyde. ‘What if it’s another hoax, like Lewisham?’
‘Force him to prove his identity,’ Hyde urged softly.
Holt nodded and released the mouthpiece. ‘Philip Holt here.’
‘Fine. This is Vance Scranton.’ It was a young, strong voice with a marked American accent.
‘Robert Scranton, did you say?’ said Holt, playing for time.
‘No, that’s my father. This is Vance on the phone. The prodigal son, you know?’
‘No, I’m not sure that I do know,’ Holt replied carefully. ‘The last time somebody claiming to be Vance Scranton spoke on the telephone, it was a trick and a man was murdered shortly afterwards.’
‘Oh, sure – you mean Curly. Say, didn’t he look terrible with that black wig and the lipstick and all?’
Holt’s heart missed a beat. The wig had got into the press reports of the murder, but there had been no mention of the lipstick question-mark on Curly’s skull.
‘Did you kill him, Scranton?’
‘Holt, I’m in no mood for answering questions. I’m in a jam and I need your help.’
‘Where are you? Where are you phoning from?’
‘Sorry, I can’t tell you that. I can’t tell you anything at all unless you do a little job for me. Then you can hear the whole sad story. Is it a deal?’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘You’ve got my ring, haven’t you? My signet ring?’
‘How the devil did you know that?’
‘No questions, or the deal’s off. Now listen carefully … If you deliver that ring to a safe place, as soon as I know it’s there I’ll meet you and give you all the answers to the Scranton Quiz Programme.’
‘Where do I deliver the ring?’
‘To old Harry Dalesford.’ Vance gave a laugh. ‘Yeah, the Professor himself. Only he mustn’t know about it, see? Find some excuse to call on him and drop that ring into the fancy clay jar he keeps on his desk – he stuffs a load of pens and pencils in it as a rule … You got that?… Don’t try and double-cross me, Holt, or I’ll find out for sure and then I just won’t turn up for our date.’
‘Where and when is that date to be, Scranton?’
‘Tomorrow night, around midnight, on the beach.’
‘Which beach? Eastbourne’s a big area.’
‘Under the Pier. Got it, Holt … Under the Pier. Midnight tomorrow.’
There was a click and the line went dead.
Hyde was the first to break the silence. ‘Was it the real thing?’
‘The line was bad, but I think so. He knows I’ve got the ring!’
Holt went on to recount the part of the conversation which they had not been able to hear. Ruth was entranced with this latest development, but Hyde said nothing.
‘What do you want me to do, Inspector?’ Holt asked presently. ‘Shall I go along with his plan, hoping to God that he keeps his word? Or are you going to sound the general alarm and have him arrested?’
The Inspector took some time before replying. It was a difficult decision to make. At last he said, ‘In order to arrest him I’ve first got to have my hands on him. That’s easier said than done. But if he gives himself up of his own accord … Holt, I suggest you go through all the motions of falling in with his plan. Do just what he asked – but with this one difference: I shall have a small army of police in plain-clothes – fishermen, tourists, courting couples, and so on – posted in the shadows of the Pier, ready to pick him up if he does keep his end of the bargain. If he fails to appear, then I’ll issue a warrant for his arrest and sound the alarm.’
‘I wonder who told him you’d got the ring,’ Ruth said. ‘The lady who gave it to you, by any chance?’
Holt shrugged his shoulders. ‘Possibly. Antoinette isn’t the only suspect, though. It could be any one of the people I met at lunch today.’
‘Let’s take another look at that ring,’ said Hyde. ‘Maybe there’s more in it than meets the eye.’
Holt delved into his jacket pocket. ‘That’s funny – I distinctly remember …’ With a perturbed expression he began to feel in his other pockets.
‘Did you transfer it to your overcoat?’ asked Ruth.
‘Or your wallet?’ the Inspector suggested.
Holt foraged in both these places with mounting anxiety and no success. There was a strained silence whilst he turned every pocket inside out. Finally the inescapable conviction that the ring was missing could no longer be denied. A thief had been at work.
Who? Henri Legere or Jimmy Wade as they joined him at the cash desk and strolled back with him to his table? Julie, under cover of the fuss Wade made as he helped her on with her coat? She had pleaded with Holt to let her have the ring as a keepsake. Or was the pickpocket Ashley Milton himself, forewarned by Julie of the ring’s existence, and clever enough to get Holt on his own in the relaxed surroundings of his private apartment?
As Holt tried to reconstruct the scene and account for each suspect’s movements, he realised with dismay that it could be any one of them.
The Inspector put through several calls to Scotland Yard and the three of them talked in his hotel room till late in the evening. One thing was crystal clear: the opportunity to pin Vance Scranton down to a particular time and a particular place was too good to miss. The loss of the ring could not be allowed to prevent the rendezvous under the Pier. It was agreed that Hyde should have a copy made, as accurately as they could remember it, and Holt would make some excuse to visit Professor Dalesford in the morning.
They discussed the curious choice of the Professor’s pencil-jar as a receptacle, and agreed that any one of four people – Dalesford, Julie, Antoinette, or Legere – would be in a position to pick the ring up easily.
When the telephone rang Holt answered, in case it should be Vance. But to his surprise it was Vance’s parents. The call was short and Holt provided an account of it immediately he had hung up.
‘That was the Scrantons. They decided to come down here and they’re staying at the Grand. It seems they’ve had a letter forwarded to them. It was addressed to Vance at the College and Dalesford opened it by mistake.
‘What was in the letter?’ Hyde asked.
Holt made a wry grimace. ‘Belated birthday greetings. From Christopher.’
The Inspector sprang to his feet. ‘That confounded ghost again! Has Scranton brought the letter with him?’
Holt nodded. ‘Mrs Scranton asked me to go round first thing in the morning – says they’re too tired to see me tonight. She didn’t sound as friendly as usual. I could be wrong, but I thought I detected a note of impatience in her voice. They’re probably wondering when my investigations are going to show some results.’
‘You’d have risen very considerably in Mrs Scranton’s estimation if you’d told her you’d just conversed with her son on the telephone,’ the Inspector said with the faintest hint of a twinkle in his eye.
Holt smiled. ‘Yes, I would, wouldn’t I?’
‘What are you two playing at?’ Ruth protested. ‘Think of that poor mother, half out of her mind with worry and doubt—’
‘Yes – so overwrought, in fact, that the moment I tell her I’ve spoken to Vance she’ll rush off and do something foolish and upset the applecart completely!’ Holt pointed out.
Hyde grunted agreement with this point of view.
Holt went on, ‘This is a very delicate matter we’re trying to bring off, this rendezvous with Vance. It’s like setting a time-bomb – if we let the parents tamper with the fuse the whole thing may blow up prematurely … Don’t you agree, Inspector?’
‘I do indeed. First things first: contact Vance – and then it will be time to break the news to the parents that their boy is alive, and in all probability a double-murderer!’
It was a bright, blustery day with strange-shaped masses of grey cloud scudding across the sky as Holt drove to Deanfriston with Mr and Mrs Scranton in his newly-repaired Mustang. They had expressed a wish to meet some of their son’s friends, which had conveniently provided Holt with the desired excuse to visit the College.
The Christopher letter – Number Three in the strange series of communications – was in his pocket. It was frustrating not to know whether it was blank like Number Two, or if it contained a code message like the first one. But they would know by late afternoon, since Hyde had taken the precaution of ordering an expert down from the Yard, complete with materials.
Also in Holt’s pocket was a copy of the stolen signet ring. Hyde had put on a turn of speed and got things done during the night. A special messenger had delivered the duplicate ring by breakfast-time. Hyde had also detailed a couple of investigators to delve into Ashley Milton’s private life, and was himself making a personal check on the luxury yacht moored a few miles away at Newhaven. Ruth was spending the morning on some investigations of her own at Birling Gap. And with any luck at all, by midnight at the latest they would meet up with the elusive Vance Scranton himself. Wheels were beginning to turn at last!
The Mustang rounded the crest of a hill and the College came into view. Dipping towards the village below, Holt caught sight of a group of riders on horseback. Antoinette had been on his mind and he slowed down to see if she was amongst them. But, rather to his disappointment, she was not. It consisted of young men, obviously students from the College. One rider recognised him and cantered towards the car, his fair hair blowing in the wind. It was Henri Legere.
Legere called out a cheerful greeting as he came up.
‘Bonjour, Monsieur Legere,’ Holt replied. ‘Let me introduce you to Mr and Mrs Scranton.’
The handsome young Frenchman bowed low in the saddle and beamed at the Americans.
‘I promised they’d meet some of Vance’s friends,’ Holt said, ‘but I didn’t know we’d be so fortunate as to bump into you en route. Tell me: when on earth do you find time to do any studying?’
Legere emitted a rich peal of laughter. ‘It must seem that I am very lazy, Monsieur Holt. In fact I am taking a complete rest after some exhausting examinations.’
‘I see. Then perhaps you’d have time to call on Mr and Mrs Scranton during their stay down here and talk about Vance? They’re longing to chat with someone who was at the College with him.’
‘But naturally, I should be delighted.’
‘Good, that’s settled then!’
Holt was about to let in the clutch when Legere leaned towards him and said quietly, ‘You have a moment, Monsieur Holt? I have something important to say to you.’
It was a little awkward, but Holt excused himself to his passengers. Legere dismounted and led his horse to a convenient spot some few yards away.
‘Do you remember my mentioning to you, the first time I met you, that I share my rooms in Eastbourne with a Scotsman named Graham Brown?’
‘Yes, I think I do. You said he was away, visiting his parents, I believe?’
‘That is right. At least, that is what I thought. But I have received no news from him for over ten days and now I am worried. I thought perhaps he might have become ill so I telephoned to his father in Scotland.’ Legere paused dramatically and glanced towards the Mustang parked at the roadside. ‘Monsieur Holt, I am very worried. Graham did not go to Scotland. At least, he did not arrive there. His father was under the impression that he was here at the College.’
Holt frowned. ‘It does sound rather odd, I must say. Have you notified the police?’
‘No, I thought I would wait until I see you again. But I expect Mr and Mrs Brown will get in touch with the police if they think it is necessary.’
‘Yes, I expect they will.’
Legere began to climb into the saddle.
‘By the way,’ said Holt, ‘what’s Graham Brown like? Physically, I mean. Tall – short – fair – dark?’
Legere considered for a moment. ‘How shall I say?… He has brown hair, he is of medium height … nothing very special about him. To look at he was a bit like Vance. In fact, I would say they were very similar. Well, I must go or I shall not be able to catch up the others. Au revoir, Monsieur Holt.’
Holt stood watching thoughtfully as Legere rode away. He was a handsome man, full of Gallic charm, and he sat his horse well. It was quite possibly true, as Julie had declared, that the young Frenchman was Antoinette’s current lover. With a twinge of envy Holt put the thought out of his mind and strode back to the car.
It was a disappointment to find that Professor Dalesford was not in his office when they arrived.
Julie Benson, looking somewhat flustered, began stabbing buttons on her internal call-box in a nervous attempt to trace the Professor’s whereabouts. She did not invite them into Dalesford’s room but kept the three of them waiting in a small anteroom where she evidently did her work. After a series of fruitless telephone calls she jumped up, announced that she was going to look herself, and ran from the room.
‘She seems in an awful tizzy,’ Mr Scranton commented, scratching his close-cropped head in a puzzled manner.
His wife shot him an amused glance. ‘Robert sometimes you’re very obtuse! Don’t you realise what an ordeal it is for a girl to meet the parents of the boy she’s engaged to – or rather, was?’
‘You mean she’s scared of us?’ said Scranton with good-natured bewilderment.
‘Unless it’s Mr Holt who’s sending her into such a tizzy,’ Mrs Scranton added coyly. ‘I can well imagine the disastrous effect he has on young female hearts.’
Holt appeared not to have heard her comment. He was engrossed in peering through the striated-glass panel into the Professor’s office. He straightened up, turned the handle, and said as he entered the room, ‘Either the Professor is a remarkably untidy man or else … Yes, rather as I thought: he’s had a visitor.’
The first thing that had caught his eye was the fancy clay pencil-jar, smashed into three pieces like a split coconut. The rest of the room looked as though a gang of teenage hoodlums had been to work on it. The Scrantons gasped, and a moment later they heard a shriek from Julie Benson.
Holt turned round sharply and said, ‘Please spare us the customary fainting fit, Miss Benson – there really isn’t time! Tell me how this could have happened. Haven’t you been outside in the anteroom all morning?’
Julie looked deathly pale. She gulped and shook her head. ‘No. It must have happened while I was … The Professor always allows me a coffee break … I must have been gone longer than usual.’
‘How long?’
‘Nearly … nearly half an hour.’
‘Didn’t you look into his office when you got back?’
‘No, I didn’t.’ She gestured helplessly towards the internal call-box. ‘I buzzed him to tell him I was back, and when he didn’t answer I just got on with the pile of letters he’d given me. It never entered my head that … Oh, Mr Holt, where is he? What’s happened? What were they looking for, these hooligans?’
‘Are you sure you don’t know, Miss Benson?’ Holt said harshly.
She shook her head, looking miserable. Her eyes began to flood with tears.
Scranton stepped gallantly into the breach. ‘Mr Holt, can’t you see the poor kid’s upset? It wasn’t her fault, she wasn’t here when all this happened. A blind man can see that Miss Benson didn’t have any need to tear the Professor’s room apart if she wanted to find something.’
The American’s solid common-sense calmed Holt. The signet ring had not been specifically mentioned, but what he had in a general way pointed out was completely logical. If Julie was Vance’s accomplice in the scheme to regain the ring she would hardly have wrecked the room before Holt’s arrival at the College. In fact, she would have been more likely to present him with the opportunity to deposit it by showing him straight into the Professor’s room. He felt a little ashamed of his anger and diverted his energies to finding Dalesford. With Julie’s help at the internal phone, some of the students who were not in the lecture halls were summoned and search parties were organised.
It was Holt who finally found him.
Dalesford, apparently dazed and in pain, was lying face down in the rose garden, partly hidden by some tall rose bushes still in bloom. His hands were tied behind his back with the thin leather strap torn from his binoculars. His spectacles lay in fragments on the gravel path near by.
Holt lifted Dalesford’s head and wiped away some of the mud with his handkerchief.
The Professor moaned and opened his eyes, without recognition. ‘I haven’t … got it, I tell you … Please leave me alone … I don’t know anything about … the ring.’
‘Dalesford!’ Holt hissed, shaking the limp figure gently and speaking in a low voice. He was anxious to gain the Professor’s attention before any of the search parties should find them. ‘I’m a friend, Dalesford – I’m Philip Holt – don’t you recognise me?’
The Professor gave a low groan and said something about his broken spectacles.
‘Who was it?’ Holt questioned him, urgently. ‘What did they want?’
‘I don’t understand … a ring … I know nothing about it …’
‘What were you doing out here in the first place?’
‘I … had a free period … between classes … Oh, I feel dreadful …’
‘I thought that must be why you had the binoculars with you. Here – let me untie your hands. How did it happen?’
‘Something … in the bushes … hit me from behind … terrible pain … I must have passed out … When I came to, they were searching me … in my pockets …’
‘Who was searching you? Tell me – what did they look like?’
‘I don’t know … They smashed my spectacles. I can’t see a thing without them … They twisted my arm behind my back – the pain was terrible, I can’t stand pain … They were looking for a ring, that’s all I know. I must have passed out again. Next time I came to I was lying in the mud. I heard horses, and then I must have—’
‘You heard horses? Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Not near. Quite far away. But I had my ear to the ground, I heard hoof-beats distinctly … Oh dear, I think I’m going to be sick!’
Dalesford rose to his feet and tottered towards a hedge. A moment later he was seen by one of the search party and students began to converge from all directions. There had just been sufficient time for Holt to make a reasonably thorough examination of the ground in and around the rose garden; a search that, despite soft earth, had failed to reveal a single impression of a horse’s hoof.
Holt stood at the window in the small functional office belonging to the Secretary of the College and watched the clouds race across the sky. He was waiting for his call to Eastbourne to come through, having deposited the Scrantons with Julie so that he could make his call in complete privacy.
He had to make up his mind what he was going to tell Hyde. Had it been sheer coincidence, meeting Henri Legere on horseback like that? If it had not been coincidence why had there been no hoof-marks near the rose garden? How valid was the Professor’s impression of the sound of horses? On a windy day sound could travel far and, even if it had been Legere’s group which he had heard, they might easily have been a long way off. And why would Legere want the ring anyway; indeed, how could he have found out where it was to be left? Legere could well he perfectly innocent. He had certainly made no attempt to conceal himself when Holt’s car had topped the brow of the hill and the file of riders had come into view. But if it was, in fact, the Frenchman who had been responsible for the incident, it was clear that he could not have been the pickpocket at the restaurant. Only one thing now stood out more clearly than before: the signet ring was an object of great desirability in the eyes of several people.
Almost as though he had been able to read Holt’s train of thought, Inspector Hyde’s first words when the call came through referred to the ring. But the information was the last thing in the world that Holt had expected.
‘Before you tell me your news, let me get a word in edgeways,’ the Inspector began. ‘The ring’s been returned! We’ve got it back.’
‘Good God! I can’t believe it!’
‘It’s true. It’s been handed in.’
‘By whom, for God’s sake?’
‘By Jimmy Wade. He brought it this morning.’
‘Jimmy Wade! I might have guessed! He’s got a pair of hands like a conjuror!’
‘Not so fast,’ Hyde cautioned. ‘He says he was merely bringing the ring for Milton. It seems one of Milton’s waiters was cleaning under the table where you sat yesterday and found it there.’
‘Rubbish!’ Holt snorted. ‘I certainly never dropped it. And even if I had, how would Milton have known that—’
‘He says the waiter is a very observant fellow and noticed you showing the ring to Julie Benson and the others. He therefore assumed it was yours.’
Holt sighed. ‘I don’t know who’s the bigger liar, Milton or Wade. What the devil are they playing at?’
‘We may know sooner than you think. At least we’ve cleared up one aspect of this baffling case. We know who was actually murdered in Vance’s study.’
‘Ah! May I make a guess?’
‘Waste of time. The dead boy’s parents identified his body this morning. They came down by fast train from—’
‘From Scotland,’ Holt cut in. ‘Their name is Brown. Vance Scranton killed his fellow student, Graham Brown, and nearly succeeded in passing off the body as his own – God knows why, though! Am I right?’
‘How do you do it, Holt? Inspired guesswork again?’
‘No. I met Henri Legere riding on the Downs when I was on my way to the College. He put the idea into my head.’ Holt gave an account of the meeting, and went on to describe the dramatic events which had followed.
Hyde listened intently, only allowing himself an occasional startled exclamation.
‘Are you coming out here, Inspector?’ Holt asked when he reached the end of his story.
‘Yes. I ought to see Dalesford, that’s obvious; and I think I’d better have a talk with this Frenchman. There are a lot of odd coincidences that he can start explaining.’
‘True enough. But you can’t get away from the fact that it was he who took steps in the first place to contact Graham Brown’s parents.’
Hyde gave a disbelieving grunt. ‘It would have come to light sooner or later anyway. He was just trying to earn an easy credit. You’ll think a lot less kindly of Henri Legere when you hear what Ruth was able to dig up at Birling Gap this morning.’
‘Has she been to see Antoinette again?’
‘No. Antoinette’s neighbour.’
‘But she hasn’t got a neighbour! Antoinette lives in the middle of a field. The nearest house is at least two hundred yards away!’
‘That’s the neighbour,’ said Hyde dryly. ‘I’ll leave Ruth to tell you the details. Did you get the Christopher letter from Scranton?’
‘Yes, I’ll give it to you when you get here.’
‘You won’t be there to give it to me. I’ve got a special job for you and Ruth. Is there anyone at the College who’s absolutely reliable?’
Holt thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I think so – the Secretary. I’m phoning from his office now.’
‘Good. Leave the letter with him and I’ll pick it up.’
‘Fair enough. Now, what’s this job you’ve got for us? Don’t make it a long one – I’ve got a date with a murderer at midnight, don’t forget.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten. Listen – I’ve been out to take a look at Ashley Milton’s yacht at Newhaven. It’s called the Sunset – a beautiful vessel, you could sail round the world in it. It’s festooned with radar and radio masts and depth-sounding equipment, far more than is usual for a private boat in these parts. Some shore-hands I got talking to say its engines are unusually powerful too.’
‘It sounds a luxurious toy for a man who’s been paying out hundreds of pounds in blackmail,’ Holt remarked.
‘Quite so. We’re probing into Milton’s finances. That may prove very illuminating.’
‘Did you get on board the Sunset?’
‘That’s just it; I couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘The crew would have recognised me. There are four men in all, and at least two of them are old lags.’
Holt whistled. ‘That doesn’t sound in keeping with the stylish Ashley Milton, does it? I suppose you want Ruth and me to clamber aboard and snoop around?’
‘Not clamber, dear chap – just slip. It would be better not to let the crew know of your intentions. The ones I saw are rather a rough lot, I’m afraid.’