Clutch of Constables by Ngaio Marsh Page A

at Tollardwark—”
     
    -2-
    They had berthed on the outskirts of the little market-town and after dinner the passengers explored it. Troy sensed frontal attacks from Miss Rickerby-Carrick and possibly Caley Bard so, having a plan of her own, she slipped away early. There was an office on the wharf with a telephone booth at the disposal of the passengers. As it was open and nobody seemed to be about, she went straight in.
    There was one thing about that number, Troy thought, you did get through quickly. In seconds she was saying: “Is Inspector Fox in the office? Could I speak to him? It’s Mrs Roderick Alleyn,” and almost immediately: “Br’er Fox? Troy Alleyn. Listen. I expect you all know: but in case you don’t:—It’s about the Soho thing in this morning’s paper. The man was to have been a passenger in the—” She got it out as tidily and succinctly as she could, but she had only given the briefest outline when he cut in.
    “Now, that’s very kind of.you, Mrs Alleyn,” the familiar paddy voice said. “That’s very interesting. I happen to be working on that job. And you’re speaking from Tollardwark? And you’ve got the vacant cabin? And you’re talking from a phone box? From where?… I see… Yes.” A pause. “Yes. We heard yesterday from New York and he’s having a very pleasant time.”
    “What?” Troy ejaculated. “Who? You mean Rory?”
    “That’s right, Mrs Alleyn. Very nice indeed to have heard from you. We’ll let you know, of course, if there’s any change of plan. I think it might be as well if you didn’t say very much at your end,” Mr Fox blandly continued. “I expect I’m being unduly cautious, indeed I’m sure I am, but if you can do so without drawing attention to it, I wonder if you could drop in at our place in Tollardwark in about half an hour or so? It could be, if necessary, to ask if that fur you lost at your exhibition has been found. Very nice to hear from you. My godson well? Good-bye, then.”
    Troy hung up abruptly and turned. Through the obscured-glass door panel which had a hole in one corner, she saw a distorted figure move quickly backwards. She came out and found Mr Lazenby standing by the outside entrance.
    “You’ve finished your call, Mrs Alleyn?” he jovially asked. “Good-oh. I’ll just make mine then. Bishopscourt at Norminster. I spent the week there and this will let me off my bread-and-butter stint. You don’t know the Bishop, I suppose? Of Norminster? No? Wonderfully hospitable old boy. Gave the dim Aussie parson a memorable time. Car, chauffeur, the lot. Going to explore?”
    Yes, Troy said, she thought she would explore. Mr Lazenby replied that he understood from the Bishop that the parish church was most interesting. And he went into the telephone booth.
    Troy, strangely perturbed, walked up a narrow, cobbled street into the market square of Tollardwark.
    She found it enchanting. It had none of the self-consciousness that settles upon too many carefully preserved places in the Home Counties, although, so the
Zodiac
brochure said, it had in fact been lovingly rescued from the clumsy botching of Victorian meddlers. But no care, added the brochure, could replace in their niches the delicate heads, hands, leaves and curlicues knocked off by Cromwell’s clean-living wreckers. But the fourteenth-century inn had been wakened from neglect, a monstrous weather-cock removed from the crest of the Eleanor Cross and Lady Godiva’s endowed church of St Crispin-in-the-Fields was in good heart. As if to prove this, it being practice-night for the bell-ringers, cascades of orderly rumpus were shaken out of the belfry as Troy crossed the square.
    There were not many people about. She felt some hesitation in asking her way to the police station. She walked round the square and at intervals caught sight of her fellow-passengers. There, down a very dark alley were Mr and Miss Hewson, peering in at an unlit Tudor window in a darkened shop. Mr Pollock