on. I wonder! Was her shoe missing, Harold? Ask the police, it might be worth your while. Good luck to you, Harold … heaven knows, you need it.
L. Fairfax.
Mike handed the letter to Linda and regarded Sanders with a speculative glint in his eye. ‘Why did you bring this to me instead of showing it to Inspector Rodgers?’
‘The man’s obtuse, I told you. He’d either ignore it or accuse me of writing it myself.’
‘Did you write it, Mr Sanders?’
Sanders let out a huge sigh of impatience and frustration. Picking up his hat and suede gloves he said, ‘I’ll leave the letter with you, Baxter. If it’s important – and I think it is – you’ll know how to cope with the situation. I’m expecting action from you, not the useless sort of evasions and inactivity one gets from the police. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment. You know my address, and the number’s in the phone book if you should need to contact me. Good afternoon.’
When he had gone Mike grinned at Linda, whose lips were compressed in annoyance. ‘Darling! Why on earth did you stand for it?’ she demanded.
‘Stand for what, darling?’
‘He treated us like a couple of greenhorn recruits on the barrack square. I swear that is the most arrogant man I have ever met in a whole lifetime. Why on earth didn’t you throw him out?’
‘The temptation was strong, I assure you. But I was intrigued to watch just how far his self-assurance stretched.’
‘Until the crack of doom, I should think,’ Linda said. ‘Do you realise he hardly let you finish one sentence?’
‘Yes, and I found that interesting. You see, he didn’t come here to listen to me. That wasn’t the point of the visit.’
‘Then what was?’
‘Sanders put me in mind of a sort of actor who has a nice little dramatic scene specially designed to give the play a lift. He even had a little piece of “stage business” to perform during his act – he had to deliver that letter. Have you had time to read it?’
‘Yes, but it baffles me. What’s this bit about a missing shoe?’
‘That’s a fact. There was a shoe missing when they found Lucy Staines’s body. John Goldway confirmed it this morning.’
‘It’s rather a strange coincidence that we couldn’t find one of Peggy Bedford’s shoes when they took her away just now.’
Mike nodded. ‘I’m curious to know just what Fairfax is getting at when he writes “I wonder whether you really did murder Lucy Staines?… I wonder if you just happened to be the unlucky one they’ve picked on.” Whom do you suppose he means by “they”?’
‘The police, or the Crown, surely?’
‘Possibly. Or someone else. A gang, a group of some sort. In other words, Fairfax might be hinting that Weldon was framed.’ Noting Linda’s look of incredulity he went on, ‘Stranger things than that have been known. Anyway, this letter appears to have put the lid on my interesting little theory about a Lord Fairfax hostelry. Mix some martinis, darling – not too heavy on the Noilly Prat.’
Linda nodded and said, ‘I’ll ask Mrs Potter for some ice.’ She was interrupted by the telephone ringing, and lifted the receiver, then beckoned to her husband. ‘It’s Inspector Rodgers from Scotland Yard.’
‘Hello, Inspector,’ Mike said. ‘I was just thinking about giving you a ring.’
‘I’m afraid there’s no news yet,’ came Rodgers’s matter-of-fact voice. ‘The hospital’s not very informative but I gather it’s touch and go with the Bedford girl. I’ll contact you the moment I hear something definite. That’s not why I rang: we’ve traced that pub of yours, the Lord Fairfax.’
Mike ignored the sarcastic note in his voice and politely asked for details.
‘It’s in a quiet little village about six miles from Farnham out along the Hog’s Back. Place called Westerdale.’
‘Westerdale. Thanks very much, Inspector.’
‘Will you be going down there?’
‘Yes, I rather think I will, if that’s all right by you?’
‘Certainly. Saves me a journey. I’d come myself but I’m up to my neck in this new case at the Elephant. Keep me in the picture, will you, if anything interesting crops up?’
‘Many thanks for calling, Inspector. Good night.’
Mike hung up and smiled at his wife. ‘Well, we’ve started to make some progress. Half an hour ago we didn’t have a single Fairfax, now we’ve got two: a man in Como and a pub near Farnham.’
‘Which is first on our visiting list?… As if I didn’t know!’ said Linda sarcastically, putting away the gin and vermouth bottles with a show of heavy resignation.
Mike coughed apologetically. ‘Yes … quite … I see what you mean … But Westerdale is a little more handy, don’t you think, darling? Ask Mrs Potter to fix us a cold meal first; then I’ll bring the car round.’
‘Why don’t we leave right away?’
‘No, preferably after the evening rush-hour is over. There are a couple of decent stretches of road where I can see what sort of a job the garage has done on the car. There’s nothing like a nice little spin in the country after a hard day’s work in Town.’
Linda made a rude face and went to find Mrs Potter.
Later that evening as they set off Mike puzzled his wife by first driving to New Cavendish Street instead of taking the direct south-westerly route towards Surrey.
As he pulled in at the kerb Linda asked, ‘Are we calling on that arrogant gent? If so, count me out.’
‘No need for you to come up, darling. Get yourself a paper and mind the car. I’ll only be a minute if Sanders is at home.’
Linda bought an evening paper and glanced at it with no great interest until she suddenly caught sight of a front-page story headline: FASHION MODEL ATTEMPTS SUICIDE. Beneath a photograph of Peggy Bedford was a brief account of how she had been found in a gas-filled room of a luxury flat near Baker Street that afternoon. Anxiously Linda scanned the short column for fear their names had been mentioned, but was relieved to find that Rodgers had kept his promise and protected them from unnecessary publicity. It was the surly porter who emerged as the hero of the day; by the time an imaginative journalist had finished with him he was a veritable giant who had broken into the locked door with one heave of his massive shoulders and had subsequently carried out heroic attempts at first aid.
Linda smiled and flicked idly through the remaining pages. The international crisis was still spluttering and she was just getting interested in the latest tit-bits concerning the TV star’s missing poodle when Mike came out of Sanders’s flat carrying a fairly large envelope.
‘Got it!’ he announced as he slid beside her and started up the throaty engine.
‘Got what?’
‘A good photograph of Lucy Staines. It was in a frame by Weldon’s bedside. Thought there might be something like that available. That pompous ass Sanders refused to let me have it with the frame, so I slipped it out of the frame when he wasn’t looking. It should help us if we’re going to track down the girl’s connection with the Lord Fairfax pub. Now then, let’s see what the car can do if we’re kind to her.’
Miraculously they reached Farnham without the clangour of a speed cop’s bell in their ears, and then began studying the map for the tiny village of Westerdale. Darkness had fallen on the warm summer’s evening as they completed the last part of their journey and now, in the dark, sparsely populated country lanes around the Hog’s Back district they experienced some difficulty in finding the village.