passengers were killed, how were they certain she was on the coach?"
Miss. Disney glanced at him coldly but did not deign to answer a subordinate. Miss. Scotby had no such qualms.
"Remember it wasn't just a coach, any coach. It belonged to the Gasthof where Miss. Girling stayed every year. They were expecting her that night. She was probably a little delayed by the fog ... " "Fog? Which fog?' asked Dalziel.
"Well, it was very foggy that December, I remember. There were lots of delays. I remember watching on my television and hoping the principal had got off all right. I've often thought that if it hadn't been for the fog, the coach would probably have picked her up earlier. And she would not have travelled along the road at just that fateful time."
"I see. And the coach ... ?"
"It was split in half, I believe, before being swept over the edge into a ravine. It was one of those terrible curving roads with a precipice on one side and a cliff-face on the other. The part of the coach with the luggage boot in it was recovered almost intact. Miss. Girling's luggage was there."
She became silent. Pascoe felt that the memory gave her real pain.
Dalziel having got what he wanted was now keen to get rid of the women.
"Thank you, ladies,' he said, now a jovial inn-keeper at closing-time.
"You've been most helpful. I'll keep you no longer."
The suddenness of the onslaught had them both nearly through the door before Disney dug her heels in.
"Superintendent! My outcry this morning (was it only this morning!) when those awful ... remains were found. You cannot be taking it seriously! I was distraught. You are wasting your time. You ... "
Words failed her, but Miss. Scotby took up the burden.
"Do you really believe it might have been Miss. Girling, beneath her statue, I mean?"
Dalziel nearly had them over the threshold now. He thrust his great face at them.
"Yes,' he said. '. I really do."
They took a step back and he closed the door.
"Well,' he said rubbing his hands. ''s better. So far, so good. It's all possible. Now we can sleep. Tomorrow we'll set about finding out when. Did she get to Austria and come back to be killed? Or perhaps she never got to Austria at all! But she's kept five years. She'll keep another day. Not a bad night's work, this. A bit of luck's always handy, isn't it, Sergeant? Wouldn't you say this has been our lucky night?"
But Pascoe was not at all certain that he fully agreed.
It had certainly been Harold Lapping's lucky night.
Harold was over seventy, but still in possession of all his faculties.
He had served his country with common sense if not distinction in two world wars. He had loved and outlived two wives, and on certain great family festivals he could look with pride on more than twenty legitimate descendants.
Now in retirement he was a man respected near and far, a church-warden, a pillar of strength in the bowling club, the oldest playing member of the golf club though his handicap had slipped to 12, and an enthusiastic ornithologist.
He was also a voyeur.
It started by accident one spring night as he lay silently in the tough sea-grass above the beach vainly watching through his night-glasses (a memento of one of the wars, he forgot which) a weaving of grass which he had optimistically decided was a dunlin's nest. If it was, the dunlin was obviously spending the night elsewhere. Bored, Harold moved his glasses slowly along an arc, some thirty or forty yards ahead. And found himself peering into a fascinating tangle of arms and legs. It seemed incredible that only two people could be involved. Harold had no desire to disturb the happy pair, so he waited until their demeanour seemed to indicate they were completely oblivious to anything outside themselves before departing. But while waiting he saw no harm at all in continuing to view with expert approval the techniques on display.
Thereafter whenever his evening's ornithological research was finished.
Harold always cast around with
Miss. Disney glanced at him coldly but did not deign to answer a subordinate. Miss. Scotby had no such qualms.
"Remember it wasn't just a coach, any coach. It belonged to the Gasthof where Miss. Girling stayed every year. They were expecting her that night. She was probably a little delayed by the fog ... " "Fog? Which fog?' asked Dalziel.
"Well, it was very foggy that December, I remember. There were lots of delays. I remember watching on my television and hoping the principal had got off all right. I've often thought that if it hadn't been for the fog, the coach would probably have picked her up earlier. And she would not have travelled along the road at just that fateful time."
"I see. And the coach ... ?"
"It was split in half, I believe, before being swept over the edge into a ravine. It was one of those terrible curving roads with a precipice on one side and a cliff-face on the other. The part of the coach with the luggage boot in it was recovered almost intact. Miss. Girling's luggage was there."
She became silent. Pascoe felt that the memory gave her real pain.
Dalziel having got what he wanted was now keen to get rid of the women.
"Thank you, ladies,' he said, now a jovial inn-keeper at closing-time.
"You've been most helpful. I'll keep you no longer."
The suddenness of the onslaught had them both nearly through the door before Disney dug her heels in.
"Superintendent! My outcry this morning (was it only this morning!) when those awful ... remains were found. You cannot be taking it seriously! I was distraught. You are wasting your time. You ... "
Words failed her, but Miss. Scotby took up the burden.
"Do you really believe it might have been Miss. Girling, beneath her statue, I mean?"
Dalziel nearly had them over the threshold now. He thrust his great face at them.
"Yes,' he said. '. I really do."
They took a step back and he closed the door.
"Well,' he said rubbing his hands. ''s better. So far, so good. It's all possible. Now we can sleep. Tomorrow we'll set about finding out when. Did she get to Austria and come back to be killed? Or perhaps she never got to Austria at all! But she's kept five years. She'll keep another day. Not a bad night's work, this. A bit of luck's always handy, isn't it, Sergeant? Wouldn't you say this has been our lucky night?"
But Pascoe was not at all certain that he fully agreed.
It had certainly been Harold Lapping's lucky night.
Harold was over seventy, but still in possession of all his faculties.
He had served his country with common sense if not distinction in two world wars. He had loved and outlived two wives, and on certain great family festivals he could look with pride on more than twenty legitimate descendants.
Now in retirement he was a man respected near and far, a church-warden, a pillar of strength in the bowling club, the oldest playing member of the golf club though his handicap had slipped to 12, and an enthusiastic ornithologist.
He was also a voyeur.
It started by accident one spring night as he lay silently in the tough sea-grass above the beach vainly watching through his night-glasses (a memento of one of the wars, he forgot which) a weaving of grass which he had optimistically decided was a dunlin's nest. If it was, the dunlin was obviously spending the night elsewhere. Bored, Harold moved his glasses slowly along an arc, some thirty or forty yards ahead. And found himself peering into a fascinating tangle of arms and legs. It seemed incredible that only two people could be involved. Harold had no desire to disturb the happy pair, so he waited until their demeanour seemed to indicate they were completely oblivious to anything outside themselves before departing. But while waiting he saw no harm at all in continuing to view with expert approval the techniques on display.
Thereafter whenever his evening's ornithological research was finished.
Harold always cast around with
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