Even though I knew that Pat had an advantage over me, and that he might be speaking to Mr Archer at that very moment, I could not resist taking myself off, yesterday, to pay a call on Mrs Burke-Jones. In order not to seem too goal-directed, I brought Cecily with me, proudly dressed in her best with new patent leather shoes on her minuscule feet. I found Mrs Burke-Jones enjoying a peaceful afternoon by herself, school having let out for the holidays some days ago. She was cutting the heads off the dead roses and piling the withered flowers in a basket on the grass at her side. I paused, admiring her upright carriage and well-tailored dress. I do find that the modern fashion of skirts closely fitted near the waist and sweeping into a gentle flare as they descend to the ground becomes her better than the stiff bustles we used to wear when I first met her ten years ago, which seemed to underscore rather than soften her somewhat stern and authoritarian style.

‘Why, Mrs Weatherburn,’ she said – our friendship, although warm, having begun on too unequal a footing to ever admit of the use of Christian names between us – ‘how unexpected and what a pleasure. Do join me in the garden. Would the child like a biscuit?’

Cecily registered due enthusiasm at the suggestion of a biscuit, and holding it tightly, went to stand in front of a large flower-bed which was buzzing with an astonishing number of busy bees.

‘Bzzz, bzzz, bzzzz,’ she said to herself, quietly, observing them.

‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Burke-Jones, ‘aren’t you afraid she’ll get stung?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘She won’t disturb them. She likes to watch. She looks at things very carefully, and can tell you quite a lot about them afterwards.’

‘She’ll be a good pupil, then,’ she said, ‘if you mean to send her to school.’

‘Well, naturally I’ll send her to your school, and her brother,’ I laughed, recalling a time when her school used to be my little school and the audacious idea of including small boys in its composition came to us together. That idea of ten years ago seems almost banal now, as schools of its kind have sprung up all over the country. What had seemed so daring, so original to us, had apparently struck the mind of an entire country all at once.

‘But it won’t be for a long time yet,’ I went on. ‘They’re only just three – they’re practically babies still. They need far too much sleep and love and play to even think about learning anything yet!’

‘Why the bees say bzzz?’ said Cecily suddenly, turning around.

‘It’s the sound of their little wings,’ Mrs Burke-Jones told her, agitating her hand quickly in illustration of her words, ‘going back and forth very very fast, like this: bzzzzzzzzz.’

‘Oh,’ said Cecily seriously, and turned back to her observations. Mrs Burke-Jones laughed.

‘They may be readier than you think!’ she said.

The maid brought out a tray containing tall glasses and a pitcher of fresh lemonade, which she placed on a little iron table. Mrs Burke-Jones poured out a drink and handed it to me. I settled myself to perform a certain number of indispensable social tasks before proceeding to my true purpose.

‘How is Emily coming along with her studies?’ I asked.

‘Very well indeed,’ she said, with a satisfaction that contrasted sharply with the consternation I well remembered when Emily had first declared her intention of attending university to study mathematics. ‘She says that her dissertation is advancing, and she expects to finish it within the next two years. Unfortunately, it seems out of the question for her marriage to take place then, for Roland is only just beginning his own dissertation now.’

‘Of course,’ I said, ‘Arthur told me that he was Senior Wrangler this year. Emily must be extremely proud.’

‘Oh, it was not much of a surprise,’ she said. ‘Hudson of King’s has been the best mathematics student in his year since he arrived. His sister Phoebe – Hudson of Girton, they call her – is in her second year now, and favoured to achieve Wrangler status as well, and there is a third sister who will begin at Newnham in September.’

‘I met the Hudson family in London once,’ I recalled. ‘They seem quite astonishing.’

‘Emily says that Roland will hopefully complete his dissertation within three years, and is planning to be married then. It seems a long time. Why, I should have been furiously impatient to be married, in her situation. They have already been engaged for nearly a year! But she seems quite content.’

‘I was engaged for four years myself,’ I said, ‘and found the time very pleasant. I wanted to marry, to be sure, but I clearly remember also feeling a tinge of fear at the idea of abandoning all of my professional activities and remaining unoccupied at home. Even if I was only a teacher of small children, I led a busy life.’

‘Emily talks of continuing to do mathematics after her marriage,’ said Mrs Burke-Jones, looking as though she did not believe that any such wild plan could be put into execution. ‘Well, we will see,’ she added. ‘Now that Edmund is at university and Robert is already a lad of fourteen, I am beginning to look forward to having small children about the house again. Your little girl is a delight. That age is so extraordinarily charming. I suppose she and her brother keep you extremely busy?’

‘I am busy,’ I assented, ‘but I have nevertheless found the time to take on a case recently; a case of identification. In fact, I must admit that there is something I thought you might possibly be able to help me with.’

‘What is it?’ she asked. Mrs Burke-Jones is always very serious about such things as work. Her attitude towards mine has never been disapproving, although she is both discreet and incurious. Still, I felt that I could count on her help if necessary.

‘Are you,’ I asked, ‘by any chance acquainted with a certain Mr Geoffrey Archer, who lives in a large manor called Chippendale House, in the direction of Grantchester?’

‘Geoffrey Archer,’ she repeated thoughtfully. ‘It rings a bell. I don’t really know him, yet the name is definitely familiar. Where might I have met a Mr Archer? Is he old or young?’

‘He’s not young,’ I said. ‘He can hardly be less than sixty, I should think.’

‘Sixty,’ she said, ‘that narrows it down. I know – yes, I believe I have it. Is he a tall man with good bearing and white hair, and a rather loud voice? I think I may have met him at the Darwins.’

‘The Darwins?’ I said. ‘Do you mean Darwin as in Evolution, or Darwin as in my neighbours in Newnham?’

‘It is the same Darwin,’ she said with a smile. ‘The same family, that is. Your neighbour George Darwin is Charles Darwin’s son. Didn’t you know?’

‘Really, no, I didn’t!’ I said, startled into a new respect for the querulous, bearded gentleman I saw frequently passing down the Newnham Road, well wrapped up and leaning heavily on a cane even on the loveliest day.

‘Why yes,’ she went on, ‘Charles Darwin had a number of sons, and several of them live in Cambridge. Your neighbour has a lovely American wife. Now that I think of it, their house is only a few minutes from yours, isn’t it?’

‘Just a short walk,’ I said, ‘and I pass in front of it almost every day. Most of Cambridge does, I think, living just off the Silver Street bridge as they do! The children like to run wildly along the top of the garden wall, and even when I don’t see them, it is easy to hear them playing in the garden. They are an adventurous bunch, I think. However, I am not acquainted with them. I should quite like to be. But my real goal is to meet Mr Archer. Do you think there is any chance that something might be arranged?’

‘It really should be possible,’ she said, ‘assuming that I haven’t made a mistake about Mr Archer. But no, I am quite sure I remember him from a dinner party at the Darwins. I will call on dear Maud and see what I can do. The Darwins receive very frequently.’

‘That would be wonderful,’ I said eagerly, wishing that social conventions did not leave me so powerless to hurry events along, but exhorting myself inwardly to be grateful for small blessings. ‘Just – I must ask you another small favour. I hope you don’t mind.’

She looked questioning, so I continued quickly.

‘It’s only this: if you mention me to Mrs Darwin, it would be best to call me by my maiden name. I – hum – for purposes of detection, I really must be taken for a single woman. And please, please do not be surprised if I behave a little strangely. My goal is to begin a friendship with Mr Archer.’

She raised her eyebrows and said nothing, merely nodded in discreet acquiescence.

So excited was I by the prospect of progress in this quarter, that the ringing of the doorbell, early this afternoon, sent me jumping out of my seat, wondering if Mrs Burke-Jones could have worked the miracle so quickly. But I was not surprised when upon throwing open the front door, I perceived Pat upon the step. A comically dejected, deprecating look painted itself upon his features as he saw me.

‘Failure,’ he said, sitting down at the dining room table and throwing his hat on it crossly. ‘It was easy to get at him, as I told you it would be. I interviewed him – standing on the doorstep, since he wouldn’t let me in – and took notes of everything he said. But I couldn’t get anything useful out of of him at all. Not one dashed thing, even though I tried using what you said about the girl possibly being an actress.’

He pulled a couple of folded pages of notes from his pocket and slid them to me across the table with a rueful smile. I took them and read.

    Notes of interview
     
     
P O’S:    I’m here from the Cambridge Evening News, sir, to ask you if you would be willing to be interviewed for our new series of articles called Arts and Society. Our goal is to raise public interest in artistic productions by presenting the opinions of important members of society on them.
     
     
G A:   Well, I’m afraid I don’t have much to say on the subject. I don’t get out much.
     
     
P O’S:   Surely a gentleman of your standing has a busy social life, sir, if I may make so bold as to say so.
     
     
G A:   Well, I go out of an evening on occasion, but I prefer to dine with friends than to go to a show.
     
     
P O’S:    What are your feelings about paintings? Do you visit museums, or collect?
     
     
G A:   No, I’m afraid I don’t. I’m more interested in machines.
     
     
P O’S:   (Afraid the interview is about to be summarily ended) Well, how about the theatre? Surely you go to see a play from time to time, sir?
     
     
G A:   Well, from time to time, I suppose I do.
     
     
P O’S:   Can you tell me the title of the last play you saw?
     
     
G A:   Now, you’re not going to be pleased, young man, but I can’t. I really don’t remember.
     
     
P O’S:   (Never discouraged) How about artists, sir? Are you personally acquainted with any artists? That would do just as well for an article in the paper.
     
     
G A:   I don’t believe I know any artists, no.
     
     
P O’S:   No painters? How about actors? Actresses? Ah (afraid of being too explicit) – singers? Musicians?
     
     
G A:   The problem is that although I’ve met such people on occasion, I really don’t have anything particular to say about them. Individually, they’re – why, they’re just individuals, some pleasant and others unpleasant, no different from anyone else. And as for their work, I really don’t have an opinion on such things.
     
     
P O’S:   Could you at least give me the names of some artists you are personally acquainted with?
     
     
G A:   I’d rather not, because I have a suspicion that you’d manage to make more newspaper copy out of what I’ve told you than it deserves. I’d prefer not to appear at all in your series of articles about Arts and Society. Come back when you start one on Technology and Society.

‘That’s when he stepped back inside and closed the door rather firmly,’ grumbled Pat. ‘I can’t even say he was disagreeable – but he certainly wasn’t friendly. Well, you see how it was.’

I couldn’t help laughing at his discomfiture, and even more at the style of his notes. But I was brought suddenly back to earth by his next words.

‘Vanessa, we’re going to have to take this to Fred. It’s too important to go on playing with. This Archer must know who the girl was, and the police will get it out of him if we can’t. I feel we don’t have the right to waste any more time.’

‘You are right,’ I said slowly. ‘I have begun arranging a possibility for myself to meet Mr Archer, but I am almost certainly going to run into the same difficulty as you, apart from the fact that it may take days if not weeks to organise. We can’t wait so long. You are right; we must go and see Inspector Doherty.’

‘And this very minute,’ said Pat. ‘I feel bad already about not going yesterday. As far as I know – and he promised to keep me abreast – he’s got nowhere as yet with the stuff from the Missing Persons Bureau. Come along, Vanessa, get your things on!’

‘Hm,’ I said, thinking how uncomfortable it was going to be to explain about the identification of the bracelet. ‘Do I have to come? Can’t you explain it all to him yourself?’

‘Nonsense. He’s sure to have questions to ask you,’ he said obliviously. ‘Come along, do – it won’t take much time. He’s not working tonight. We’ll find him at home.’

I yielded, ran upstairs to explain my errand to Arthur, and left with Pat, buoyed up by a comfortable feeling of relief at the idea of delivering the whole puzzle over to the capable hands of the police. Yet when we reached Inspector Doherty’s little terraced house on George Street, I felt a little nervous again. What if I was about to disturb an important policeman with nothing but a heap of nonsense? I wished I had been able to conclude the investigation with all its details by myself. But it was too late, and too urgent for that.

‘Vanessa’s found out who she is, Fred,’ announced Pat with his characteristic careless haste, as soon as the door opened, whilst poor Inspector Doherty was still peering half-blind into the darkness to make out who his visitors were.

‘No, I haven’t,’ I objected quickly.

‘Oh, Pat dear, how nice of you to come by,’ said a friendly voice from within, and a female version of Pat appeared in the hall behind him, complete with red hair, freckles and irrepressible gaiety.

‘My sister Molly,’ he told me, drawing me inside as though the house belonged to him, pushing freely past his brother-in-law, and kissing his sister warmly on the cheek. During this time, the inspector slipped quickly back into the dining room, where we found him seated at an imposing mahogany table which dwarfed the humble room, in front of the remains of what looked like a most appetising plate of ginger pudding.

‘Don’t mind him,’ said Molly Doherty. ‘He’s just finishing. Here, Fred, run along to the sitting room and talk. I’ll take the things out to the kitchen.’

‘I’m not done yet,’ he protested, hastily scooping up the last morsel as she swept his dish out nearly from under his fork. ‘Oh all right, Pat. I see you’re just bursting with the discovery, and I’ll admit that, pudding or no pudding, I’m longing to know what you’ve found out.’ He rose, and leading us to the little adjoining parlour, he looked at us expectantly.

‘Vanessa had better tell it,’ said Pat.

‘I really wish I had more to tell,’ I began. ‘Unfortunately, it isn’t true that I know who the girl is. But I believe I have found someone who must know.’

‘All right,’ he said, ‘that sounds like a good start. Who is it, and how did you find the person?’

I hemmed for a moment, wishing but not seeing how to avoid mentioning the bracelet.

‘What happened is that, as soon as I saw the dead girl’s Chinese bracelet in your office, I believed it might have been sold at Robert Sayle’s,’ I finally chose to say. ‘They had a whole collection of such items for sale a week or two ago. I enquired with the girl who sells them, and she remembered the bracelet quite well. She said it was one of a kind, for most of the other bracelets in that lot of imports were carved ivory bangles, whereas this one was a string of intricate beads.’

‘She recognised the bracelet from a description?’ he asked, eyeing me sharply.

‘No, Vanessa showed her the bracelet,’ intervened Pat, rescuing me. ‘I – ah, borrowed it temporarily. Did you notice it was missing?’

‘I did,’ said Fred. ‘It didn’t occur to me it might be you who took it, you rascal. I couldn’t think where it had got to. But then I found it again – oh, I see, you actually put it back when you came by the other day! Now I know why you asked to see the girl’s things again.’ He glared at Pat. ‘You made off with Crown’s evidence, Pat. That’s very bad; I’m astounded at you. Believe me, this is the last time I’ll show you anything in my office.’

‘But it was useful, Fred! It was in a good cause,’ said Pat. ‘You see, as soon as Vanessa took a look at the bracelet, I saw the cogs in her brain begin whizzing like mad. So I knew that she needed it.’

‘You should have told me that right away,’ he said.

‘But I wasn’t certain,’ I answered quickly. I was about to add that I had never suggested Pat steal it for me, but decided this was too childish and that my share of the blame must be accepted with no moral detours.

‘That doesn’t matter. The right thing to do was to tell me then and there,’ he said severely, then relaxed somewhat. ‘Well, all’s well that end’s well. Go on. Let’s hear your story.’

‘All right’, I said meekly. ‘So, as I was saying, the girl remembered selling the bracelet to a man who was accompanied by the dead girl. She identified her from the photograph you gave me. But the main thing is that she actually recognised the man as a person who passes fairly regularly in the street in front of the shop. She promised to write to me the next time she should see him, and she did so. She had managed to slip away from her counter for a few minutes, and followed him as far as Petty Cury, where she saw him go into Heffers bookshop and enter into conversation with the clerk there. I then spoke with the same clerk, and discovered that the person in question is apparently none other than the clerk’s own father, a gentleman by the name of Geoffrey Archer. He lives towards Grantchester, in a manor called Chippendale House. The girl from Robert Sayle’s confirmed the identification of Mr Archer as the gentleman who bought the bracelet, accompanied by the dead girl, whom she identified from the photograph. That’s all I’ve been able to find out up to now. But you will probably be able to get the girl’s identity from Mr Archer directly.’

The inspector had drawn a pad towards him and was writing busily.

‘We thought we’d come to you with this,’ said Pat, wisely suppressing all mention of his unsuccessful interview attempt. I supposed that he felt that the inspector would view that as a piece of clumsy interference.

‘I’ll see him tomorrow,’ he said. ‘If this turns out to be correct, it’s going to be very useful. I’m grateful for your help. Now, listen to me,’ he added, fixing me with a look of authority. ‘Don’t you go meddling in this business any further. You must realise that it may be dangerous. The girl was murdered, and any person you encounter while meddling around might be the murderer. You realise, don’t you, that you can’t be allowed to take that risk. This absolutely and completely goes for you, too, Pat. Out of it. Right?’

‘It’s our meddling that brought you this key information,’ grumbled Pat resentfully.

‘Yes, but it mustn’t go any further! I’m saying what I’m saying for your own safety,’ retorted his brother-in-law. ‘And for mine, too. Your sister will kill me if I let you go stumbling into danger.’

‘All right, all right,’ said Pat, ‘I’ll stop detecting if you promise to tell me what you find out from Mr Archer and I can put it in the newspaper. Will you do that?’

‘It’s a bargain, for the girl’s name at least. I’ll let you know, and you keep out.’

I remained silent, but Inspector Doherty turned to me relentlessly. ‘Thank you again, Mrs Weatherburn. Good work,’ he said. ‘That’s quite enough for now, please. You can leave the rest of it to the police.’