Dr. Morelle and the Doll. Ernest Dudley

to himself, that he and Charles Hafferty had kept to rough track and path all the time; Tod Hafferty could have strayed anywhere on the route he habitually took, beyond the searching light of their torches. He might have pushed on in the direction of the derelict harbour at Richborough, or a score of other points. Or he might merely have turned off the road along which they were now heading, back towards the handful of houses known as Asshe.

      It wasn’t much of a search they were making of it, but it was the best they could do. Jarrett hoped fervently the old chap would be back at Asshe House when they returned. He and his companion went on; he sensed that Charles Hafferty felt equally that they were wasting their time.

      Soon they were proceeding slightly downhill to reach the wider road at the foot of the decline, which ran between Asshe and Eastmarsh, the way P.C. Jarrett had biked earlier that night.

      When at last they were back at Asshe House, they stood looking at each other in the darkness, their faces pale in the glow from their torches.

      ‘At least we know he isn’t lying up there with a broken ankle,’ Jarrett said.

      The other said nothing, and led the way to the house. He pushed the kitchen-door open and Jarrett followed him into the warmth. The radio was still playing. Bess was sitting by the table. A local newspaper was spread in front of her, but she was not reading. Her convex lenses came up to them.

      ‘You didn’t find him?’

      ‘We’ve been all round,’ Charles Hafferty said, ‘and he’s not there.’

      Bess shook the white hair combed flat and pulled into a knot in the back of her neck. Jarrett and Charles Hafferty pulled off their rubber boots and put on their shoes.

      ‘We’d better break it to Mother,’ Charles Hafferty said.

      Jarrett followed him to the hall, and then into the sitting-room, with the fire blazing comfortingly in the wide fireplace. Olivia and Bill Parker were not there; no doubt they’d thought it unnecessary to call in again about the lost man. Marie Hafferty looked up from the book she was reading, and Helen Hafferty jerked her head and her eyes fastened on her son. She had been sitting staring into the fire.

      ‘We’ve been all round,’ Charles Hafferty told her, ‘and he’s nowhere to be found. Not to worry, it must mean he’s gone off somewhere and he’s bound to phone, or else turn up here.’

      His mother looked from him to Jarrett, who nodded reassuringly. ‘I’m sure he’s nowhere outside, Mrs. Hafferty,’ he said. ‘We’d be certain to have seen him.’

      ‘Would you?’ Marie said. ‘On a night as black as this?’

      Her husband swung round on her; Marie’s eyes gleamed, then he turned back to P.C. Jarrett. ‘What happens now?’

      ‘Nothing more I can do at the moment. Mr. Hafferty might still turn up any time. I’ll go off now, and I’ll give you a ring later on.’

      Charles Hafferty glanced again at his wife. ‘Looks as though it’ll be best if I wait here.’ She didn’t answer him. He turned to Jarrett. ‘What time will you ring up?’

      Jarrett eyed his watch. It was nearly eight p.m. ‘I’ll give him till 10:30. Then if he still hasn’t come home we’d better try again.’