never explains anything,’ said the young man. ‘She’s much too aristocratic. Have you found the Baxter kids yet?’
His name was Peter Malo and his official role was secretary to Lord Westerby. But he behaved with proprietorial ease, helping Diana from the car and listening to her account of the crash at the entrance to the estate with humorous detachment.
‘Never mind, you’re alive and the car was insured,’ he said as he led her away. ‘And I’ve always thought those wrought iron monstrosities should be removed.’ He turned back, as if he had suddenly remembered Paul’s existence. ‘By the way, Temple,’ he called, ‘Lord Westerby wondered whether you could have dinner the day after tomorrow? Half past eight?’
‘We’ll be delighted,’ said Paul.
‘Perhaps you’ll have found the Baxter kids by then. Lord Westerby is worried about them, you know. Terribly worried.’
‘Why?’
The young man was taken aback. ‘Well, he is the squire, you know, he takes a benevolent interest in the community. Noblesse oblige.’ He waved carelessly and led Diana Maxwell away round the side of the house. ‘See you both the day after tomorrow.’
Paul Temple let in the clutch and drove away. It had been a frustrating afternoon so far. He wouldn’t learn much from Diana Maxwell or the supercilious young man unless they chose that he should.
‘What did you make of Miss Maxwell?’ he asked Steve.
Steve looked at the wreckage of the sports car as they drove past the gates. ‘A reckless driver,’ she murmured.
‘Not as reckless as all that,’ said Paul. ‘Her brake rods had been sawn nearly through with a hacksaw. They were bound to snap when she needed them most. Somebody tried to kill her, and I think she knew it.’
Paul drove in silence, up on to the moors and across the deserted wastes of green and purple heather. There was a strong breeze whistling over the undulating slopes which added to the sense of desolation. Sheep grazed unconcernedly at the roadside and far to the south the globes of the four minute warning system glinted in the sun.
‘Are we going somewhere?’ asked Steve.
‘I thought we might have tea in Goathland. Do you remember the first time I came up here, just after we met?’
‘Sentimental,’ murmured Steve.
They had a pot of tea for two and toasted scones in the most remote spot in England. Years ago they had discussed whether the village was named after the goats who inhabited the moors or the Goths who might have found it congenial for battles. There was a church, a post office stores, and a few houses straggled along the roadside. It had seemed an idyllic retreat in those days, when walking twenty miles had been pleasurable and sleeping in a tent had been a sensuous treat.
‘I think I’ll have one of those cream pastries,’ Steve said unromantically. ‘And then we’d better hurry. Don’t want to be late for our Latin school master. He’s a devil for punctuality, and he’ll have to get the boy back to the school before lights out.’
The schoolmaster was vague and affable; he talked about Steve’s uncle with the uncertainty of a man who usually finds he is discussing the wrong boy with the wrong parents. His name was Elkington and he arrived early with a sixteen-year-old youth in a blue school cap.
‘Consul victor em laudat,’ Paul said affably.
‘Very well, thank you,’ said the Latin master. ‘Have you met John Draper? He’s the boy you asked—’
‘Militibus turpe est captivos male custodivisse.’
Steve had to take Paul aside and explain that Mr Elkington was in fact English. ‘He used to double up as the sports master. He scored a century the last time I saw him play.’ So Paul discussed cricket with them over dinner, in English, which made conversation easier. It was one of the subjects which John Draper could discuss with authority.
The meal was English, with steaks and roast potatoes and garden peas, followed by apple pie. It was the only sort of meal to have in a northern hotel, Paul had felt, and he was enjoying the evening until the fair-haired youth exploded the pretence at polite conversation.
‘Isn’t it time you asked me the questions, Mr Temple?’ he asked suddenly. ‘I have to be back at school in two hours.’
‘Really, Draper!’ the Latin master protested. ‘This is a purely social—’
‘I’ve already told the police all I know about the Baxter brothers, so I’m afraid I shan’t be much help.
Paul grinned. ‘You’re quite right, John, I did ask Mr Elkington to bring you so that we could discuss the Baxter brothers. Why did you agree to come, I wonder?’
‘I wanted to meet you, Mr Temple. I read some of your books when I was in the sanatorium and I thought they were rather good.’ The slightly secretive smile was still hovering about the boy’s mouth. ‘And that police inspector said that on no account should I tell you anything, so I was thrilled to bits when the Elk said he was bringing me along. Er— I mean Mr Elkington.’
Mr Elkington coughed awkwardly. ‘The boys call me the Elk,’ he explained.
‘I’m anti the police,’ said the boy. ‘I’m going to university next year.’
‘The police appear to be anti me at the moment,’ said Paul with a laugh. ‘So suppose you tell me what you told the police? You went home with the Baxter brothers on the afternoon they disappeared, didn’t you? It is possible that some apparently insignificant detail will prove to be important later. What happened when Roger went in search of his brother?’
The allegiances had been established, and the boy assumed a confidential manner. ‘I went home. I popped into the Baxter cottage to tell their father I couldn’t wait, and then I went home.’
‘Did you walk home?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How far away do you live?’
‘About a mile and a half. It’s straight down the lane.’
‘Did you see anyone in the lane?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Did you hear anything?’
The boy’s self-confidence faltered. ‘No,’ he said after a pause. ‘I don’t think so. What sort of thing do you mean?’
He looked nervously at the Elk. ‘Do you mean anything suspicious?’
‘Anything at all,’ murmured Paul.
‘I don’t think I heard anything.’
Paul waited for the boy to make up his mind while Steve set the port in circulation.
‘Well, there was one thing. I don’t suppose it’s important, but when I left the Baxter cottage I thought I heard someone whistling.’
‘Good,’ Paul said promptingly.
‘But I couldn’t see anyone.’
‘Never mind, John; you thought you heard someone. What did the whistling sound like?’
‘I don’t really know.’ He laughed uncertainly. ‘It was pretty tuneless, as if he was thinking about something else.’
‘Not a wolf whistle, to attract attention?’ Steve intervened.
‘Good lord, no.’
‘Pop or jazz?’ Paul asked.
‘Neither.’
‘Ah,’ said Paul quickly, ‘so you did recognise the tune.’
The boy was confused. ‘I didn’t recognise it, Mr Temple.’
‘But you’re certain