positively that it was you, then?’
‘I dare say she thought it was,’ I says. ‘I dare say he told her so. She’d finished with him: it would be the only way he could get her.’
‘I see,’ said Inspector Cockrill. ‘How very ingenious!’ I didn’t know whether he meant how ingenious of Fred to have thought of it then, or of me to think of it now.
‘Don’t you listen to him, sir,’ says Fred. ‘He’s a bloody liar. I wasn’t with the girl that night. I tell you—I was poaching.’
‘All right, you were poaching,’ said Inspector Cockrill. ‘Any witnesses?’
‘Of course not. You don’t go poaching with witnesses. I used to go with him,’ said Fred, bitterly, gesturing with his head towards me, ‘but not since he pinched my girl, the bloody so-and-so.’
‘And last night?’ says the Inspector softly. ‘When the girl was murdered?’
‘Last night too, the same,’ said Fred. ‘I was in the woods poaching.’
‘ You call me a liar!’ I said. ‘It was me in the woods. The Vicar saw me going there.’
‘It was me the Vicar saw,’ said Fred. ‘I told him, Good evening, and he laughed and said, “Going poaching?” ’
‘There!’ said Inspector Cockrill to me, like a teacher patiently getting the truth from a difficult child. ‘How could he know that ? Because the Vicar will surely confirm it?’
‘He knows it because I told him,’ I said. ‘I told him I’d been poaching and I hoped the Vicar hadn’t really realised where I was going.’
‘Very ingenious,’ said Inspector Cockrill again. ‘Ve-ry ingenious.’ It seemed like he couldn’t get over it all, sitting there shaking his head at the wonder of it. But I knew he was playing for time, I knew that we’d foxed him. And Fred knew too. He suggested, reasonably: ‘Why should you be so sure, sir, that the girl was murdered? Why not just a second hit-and-run?’
‘A bit of a coincidence?’ said Inspector Cockrill, mildly. ‘Same thing, in the same place and so very soon after? And when on top of it, we find that the girl was threatening a certain person with exposure, about the first hit-and-run…’ He left it in the air. He said to his sergeant: ‘Have you collected their clobber?’
‘Yessir,’ said the sergeant. Two pairs of shoes—’ and he gave the Inspector a sort of nod, as if to say, Yes, they look as if they’ll match very nicely—‘and all the week’s laundry.’
‘Including Monday’s?’ says Cockrill.
‘Including Monday evening’s, sir. The old woman washes of a Monday morning. Anything they’ve worn after that—which includes two shirts to each, sir—is in two laundry baskets, one in each bedroom.’
‘Two baskets?’ he says, looking more bright-eyed than ever. ‘That’s a bit of luck. Their laundry’s kept separate, is it?’
‘Yes, it is,’ says Fred, though I don’t know what call he had to butt in. ‘His in his room, mine in mine.’
‘And no chance of its getting mixed up?’ said Inspector Cockrill. He fixed Fred with that beady eye of his. ‘This could be important.’
Fred, of course, was maintaining the mutual-accusation arrangement we’d agreed upon. ‘Not a chance, sir,’ he said a bit too eagerly.
I wasn’t going to be left out. I said: ‘Not the slightest.’
‘That’s right, sir,’ says the sergeant. ‘The old lady confirms it.’
‘Good,’ said Cockrill. He gave a few orders and the sergeant went away. People were still buzzing about, up in our bedrooms. ‘I’m coming,’ called up the Inspector, to someone at the head of the stairs. He turned back to us. ‘All right, Cain and Abel,’ he said, ‘I’ll leave you to stew in it. But in a day or two, as the song says, “I’ll be seeing you.” And when I do, it’ll be at short notice. So stick around, won’t you?’
‘And if we don’t?’ I said. ‘You’ve got nothing against us, you can’t charge us; you’ve got no call to be giving us orders.’
‘Who’s giving orders?’ he
‘I dare say she thought it was,’ I says. ‘I dare say he told her so. She’d finished with him: it would be the only way he could get her.’
‘I see,’ said Inspector Cockrill. ‘How very ingenious!’ I didn’t know whether he meant how ingenious of Fred to have thought of it then, or of me to think of it now.
‘Don’t you listen to him, sir,’ says Fred. ‘He’s a bloody liar. I wasn’t with the girl that night. I tell you—I was poaching.’
‘All right, you were poaching,’ said Inspector Cockrill. ‘Any witnesses?’
‘Of course not. You don’t go poaching with witnesses. I used to go with him,’ said Fred, bitterly, gesturing with his head towards me, ‘but not since he pinched my girl, the bloody so-and-so.’
‘And last night?’ says the Inspector softly. ‘When the girl was murdered?’
‘Last night too, the same,’ said Fred. ‘I was in the woods poaching.’
‘ You call me a liar!’ I said. ‘It was me in the woods. The Vicar saw me going there.’
‘It was me the Vicar saw,’ said Fred. ‘I told him, Good evening, and he laughed and said, “Going poaching?” ’
‘There!’ said Inspector Cockrill to me, like a teacher patiently getting the truth from a difficult child. ‘How could he know that ? Because the Vicar will surely confirm it?’
‘He knows it because I told him,’ I said. ‘I told him I’d been poaching and I hoped the Vicar hadn’t really realised where I was going.’
‘Very ingenious,’ said Inspector Cockrill again. ‘Ve-ry ingenious.’ It seemed like he couldn’t get over it all, sitting there shaking his head at the wonder of it. But I knew he was playing for time, I knew that we’d foxed him. And Fred knew too. He suggested, reasonably: ‘Why should you be so sure, sir, that the girl was murdered? Why not just a second hit-and-run?’
‘A bit of a coincidence?’ said Inspector Cockrill, mildly. ‘Same thing, in the same place and so very soon after? And when on top of it, we find that the girl was threatening a certain person with exposure, about the first hit-and-run…’ He left it in the air. He said to his sergeant: ‘Have you collected their clobber?’
‘Yessir,’ said the sergeant. Two pairs of shoes—’ and he gave the Inspector a sort of nod, as if to say, Yes, they look as if they’ll match very nicely—‘and all the week’s laundry.’
‘Including Monday’s?’ says Cockrill.
‘Including Monday evening’s, sir. The old woman washes of a Monday morning. Anything they’ve worn after that—which includes two shirts to each, sir—is in two laundry baskets, one in each bedroom.’
‘Two baskets?’ he says, looking more bright-eyed than ever. ‘That’s a bit of luck. Their laundry’s kept separate, is it?’
‘Yes, it is,’ says Fred, though I don’t know what call he had to butt in. ‘His in his room, mine in mine.’
‘And no chance of its getting mixed up?’ said Inspector Cockrill. He fixed Fred with that beady eye of his. ‘This could be important.’
Fred, of course, was maintaining the mutual-accusation arrangement we’d agreed upon. ‘Not a chance, sir,’ he said a bit too eagerly.
I wasn’t going to be left out. I said: ‘Not the slightest.’
‘That’s right, sir,’ says the sergeant. ‘The old lady confirms it.’
‘Good,’ said Cockrill. He gave a few orders and the sergeant went away. People were still buzzing about, up in our bedrooms. ‘I’m coming,’ called up the Inspector, to someone at the head of the stairs. He turned back to us. ‘All right, Cain and Abel,’ he said, ‘I’ll leave you to stew in it. But in a day or two, as the song says, “I’ll be seeing you.” And when I do, it’ll be at short notice. So stick around, won’t you?’
‘And if we don’t?’ I said. ‘You’ve got nothing against us, you can’t charge us; you’ve got no call to be giving us orders.’
‘Who’s giving orders?’ he
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