was up all night investigating this incident. I’m sure he’ll be back as soon as he gets some rest.”
Gibbons, however, was not in a mood to consider other people. Once, when he was about ten, he had come down with bronchitis that turned into pneumonia. He remembered it vividly as it stood in his mind as the worst he had ever felt, and he was accustomed to judge all other ills by this benchmark, in comparison with which they usually paled. It had not occurred to him that he could actually feel worse than he had then, and he very much resented the discovery that bronchitis was a walk in the park when contrasted with being shot.
By lunchtime when Detective Inspector Davies arrived to visit, Gibbons was nearly overcome with frustration. It was lucky that he had not worked under Davies long and as a result felt a certain amount of deference was due his superior even under these circumstances or he might have exploded at the man. As it was, he brushed aside Davies’s inquiries as to how he was feeling, and demanded to know what he had spent Tuesday doing.
Davies was an undemonstrative man, quiet in manner and slight in build with well-cut graying hair. He looked sympathetic at Gibbons’s plea for information.
“Can’t remember?” he asked. “They warned us you might not. Where do you leave off?”
“The morning,” answered Gibbons, feeling somehow embarrassed that he could not recollect more. “I remember getting on the tube to come to work. I got a seat and was reading the paper, and then everything goes blank. I’ve no memory of arriving at Victoria, or going into the Yard, or anything.”
The frustration was clear to be heard in his voice, and Davies nodded.
“It must be very unsettling,” he said kindly. “Well, I can tell you some of what you did, though we’re all still in the dark as to how you actually came to be attacked. Let’s see …” He shifted in the chair, smoothing his tie while he marshaled his thoughts. During their short acquaintance, Gibbons had already come to envy Davies’s ties, and he relieved some of his feelings now by glaring at the exquisite blue silk the inspector was currently sporting. In fact, Davies was far better turned out than anyone deserved to be after staying up all night and getting a bare four hours’ sleep.
“You got to the Yard sometime before I did,” Davies continued. “We met up shortly after nine and went to find out about Miss Haverford’s will—quite the usual meeting with a family solicitor. Then I sent you off with Colin James to interview the Colemans.” He paused and looked anxious. “You remember Colin? And the Colemans?”
Gibbons was indignant. “Yes, sir,” he said. “It’s not my whole brain that’s gone on holiday.”
“Good, good. Well, you interviewed them—you wrote a report on that, I’ll bring it by later so you can look at it—and then presumably you stopped for lunch somewhere. Colin may know about that, but I couldn’t find him last night. In fact, I’m just on my way to see him now.”
Gibbons considered this. He was, oddly, aware of having a certain warmth of feeling toward Colin James, which his very brief acquaintance with the man did not wholly explain. Presumably something in their encounter yesterday had impressed him favorably. But he could remember nothing about it.
“You got back to the Yard by about four,” continued Davies, unaware of this inner turmoil, “and wrote that report I spoke of, and I assume you did some other work from your desk.” Davies gave a little shrug. “After that we don’t know. Only that you ended up in Walworth at nine fifteen, and left a message for Chief Inspector Carmichael just before you were attacked.”
It was all too much. Gibbons bit his lip and looked away while he
brought himself under control and tried to sort through this new information. In a moment he asked, “What did I ring Carmichael about?”
If Davies was disturbed by the fact that Gibbons had
Gibbons, however, was not in a mood to consider other people. Once, when he was about ten, he had come down with bronchitis that turned into pneumonia. He remembered it vividly as it stood in his mind as the worst he had ever felt, and he was accustomed to judge all other ills by this benchmark, in comparison with which they usually paled. It had not occurred to him that he could actually feel worse than he had then, and he very much resented the discovery that bronchitis was a walk in the park when contrasted with being shot.
By lunchtime when Detective Inspector Davies arrived to visit, Gibbons was nearly overcome with frustration. It was lucky that he had not worked under Davies long and as a result felt a certain amount of deference was due his superior even under these circumstances or he might have exploded at the man. As it was, he brushed aside Davies’s inquiries as to how he was feeling, and demanded to know what he had spent Tuesday doing.
Davies was an undemonstrative man, quiet in manner and slight in build with well-cut graying hair. He looked sympathetic at Gibbons’s plea for information.
“Can’t remember?” he asked. “They warned us you might not. Where do you leave off?”
“The morning,” answered Gibbons, feeling somehow embarrassed that he could not recollect more. “I remember getting on the tube to come to work. I got a seat and was reading the paper, and then everything goes blank. I’ve no memory of arriving at Victoria, or going into the Yard, or anything.”
The frustration was clear to be heard in his voice, and Davies nodded.
“It must be very unsettling,” he said kindly. “Well, I can tell you some of what you did, though we’re all still in the dark as to how you actually came to be attacked. Let’s see …” He shifted in the chair, smoothing his tie while he marshaled his thoughts. During their short acquaintance, Gibbons had already come to envy Davies’s ties, and he relieved some of his feelings now by glaring at the exquisite blue silk the inspector was currently sporting. In fact, Davies was far better turned out than anyone deserved to be after staying up all night and getting a bare four hours’ sleep.
“You got to the Yard sometime before I did,” Davies continued. “We met up shortly after nine and went to find out about Miss Haverford’s will—quite the usual meeting with a family solicitor. Then I sent you off with Colin James to interview the Colemans.” He paused and looked anxious. “You remember Colin? And the Colemans?”
Gibbons was indignant. “Yes, sir,” he said. “It’s not my whole brain that’s gone on holiday.”
“Good, good. Well, you interviewed them—you wrote a report on that, I’ll bring it by later so you can look at it—and then presumably you stopped for lunch somewhere. Colin may know about that, but I couldn’t find him last night. In fact, I’m just on my way to see him now.”
Gibbons considered this. He was, oddly, aware of having a certain warmth of feeling toward Colin James, which his very brief acquaintance with the man did not wholly explain. Presumably something in their encounter yesterday had impressed him favorably. But he could remember nothing about it.
“You got back to the Yard by about four,” continued Davies, unaware of this inner turmoil, “and wrote that report I spoke of, and I assume you did some other work from your desk.” Davies gave a little shrug. “After that we don’t know. Only that you ended up in Walworth at nine fifteen, and left a message for Chief Inspector Carmichael just before you were attacked.”
It was all too much. Gibbons bit his lip and looked away while he
brought himself under control and tried to sort through this new information. In a moment he asked, “What did I ring Carmichael about?”
If Davies was disturbed by the fact that Gibbons had
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