from Smith. It’s practically certain that the woman’s fingerprints are Mary’s, but I want to put it to them at the Yard, ‘Where do we go from there?’ You see, it’s all very awkward. The Yard isn’t concerned with her morals, so how hard am I to press her about this story of hers? There isn’t really a shred of evidence to connect her with Louise Rogers. I’ve been thinking about that a lot, and I’m going to put it up to the Chief. She ran away from that house in a fright, but we don’t know what frightened her. She’s the sort of girl who might enjoy working a chap up until he lost his head—it happens every day. Then she’s frightened and bolts. When she has to explain herself she can’t say what happened, so she pitches a tale. The only solitary link with Louise is that blighted earring, and you know there’s an easy explanation for that. We don’t know where Louise went last Friday. It’s not impossible that Mary may have seen her and remembered the earrings. A lot of people go through Lenton, you know. Mary may have seen her there any time. If the earrings took her fancy, she’d remember them. When she wanted a story in a hurry, and an exciting one, don’t you think it’s the sort of thing she might fish up? Anyhow I’m going to put it up to the Chief and see what he says. What will you do with yourself?”
Miss Silver said primly, “I shall walk into the village and call on Miss Grey. There is a book she has promised to lend me.”
chapter 12
It was late when Frank Abbott returned—late Saturday afternoon. He came through Lenton, and saw Inspector Smith. The fingerprints collected from the Forester’s House were, as they expected, those of Mary Stokes and of a man so far unknown. Inspector Smith had, as a matter of fact, gone over on his bicycle to Tomlin’s Farm in order to obtain corroboration. Arriving there at two o’clock, he was informed that Mary had gone into Lenton. “Lunching with a friend,” Mrs. Stokes told him, “and going to the pictures afterwards… No, and I’m sure I can’t say when she’ll be home, Inspector. Girls don’t hurry themselves to get back from a jaunt, and that’s a fact. I’d be worrying myself about her coming home in the dark, for you can say what you like, it’s a lonely road, but she was meeting Joe Turnberry tea-time and he said he’d see her safe. Is there anything I can do for you?… Something she’s in the habit of handling? Well, I dunno. There’s that Picture Post— she was looking at it last night and no one’s touched it since. You’re welcome, I’m sure, though I don’t know what good it’ll do you.”
By the time Frank Abbott came into Lenton police station the proofs of Mary’s fingerprints were waiting for him. There were plenty of them all over the pages of the magazine, and they were identical with the prints from the Forester’s House.
“There’s just one of those that looks different.” Smith fished out a large, vague print. “See? It’s the side of a hand—right hand print—bit of the palm, little finger, and the one next to it, all too much smudged to be any use. That came off the panelling in the passage of the Forester’s House—five foot four from the ground and just above the smudge we thought might be blood, and blood it is. It looks to me as if it might be smeared from the cuff of a coat.”
Frank nodded.
“Well, there’s nothing else we can do tonight. The Yard are on to a man who is said to have been a pal of Louise Rogers. A little light at that end would be helpful. Meanwhile I can confront Mary Stokes with these prints and ask her what about it. It may get us somewhere, or it may not. I think we ought to go over every inch of that clearing—shift all the leaves. Some job! But if Louise was murdered there, there may be traces.”
He drove back in the dark with the feeling that looking for a needle in a haystack was going to be a joke compared to what lay ahead of them.
It was when
Miss Silver said primly, “I shall walk into the village and call on Miss Grey. There is a book she has promised to lend me.”
chapter 12
It was late when Frank Abbott returned—late Saturday afternoon. He came through Lenton, and saw Inspector Smith. The fingerprints collected from the Forester’s House were, as they expected, those of Mary Stokes and of a man so far unknown. Inspector Smith had, as a matter of fact, gone over on his bicycle to Tomlin’s Farm in order to obtain corroboration. Arriving there at two o’clock, he was informed that Mary had gone into Lenton. “Lunching with a friend,” Mrs. Stokes told him, “and going to the pictures afterwards… No, and I’m sure I can’t say when she’ll be home, Inspector. Girls don’t hurry themselves to get back from a jaunt, and that’s a fact. I’d be worrying myself about her coming home in the dark, for you can say what you like, it’s a lonely road, but she was meeting Joe Turnberry tea-time and he said he’d see her safe. Is there anything I can do for you?… Something she’s in the habit of handling? Well, I dunno. There’s that Picture Post— she was looking at it last night and no one’s touched it since. You’re welcome, I’m sure, though I don’t know what good it’ll do you.”
By the time Frank Abbott came into Lenton police station the proofs of Mary’s fingerprints were waiting for him. There were plenty of them all over the pages of the magazine, and they were identical with the prints from the Forester’s House.
“There’s just one of those that looks different.” Smith fished out a large, vague print. “See? It’s the side of a hand—right hand print—bit of the palm, little finger, and the one next to it, all too much smudged to be any use. That came off the panelling in the passage of the Forester’s House—five foot four from the ground and just above the smudge we thought might be blood, and blood it is. It looks to me as if it might be smeared from the cuff of a coat.”
Frank nodded.
“Well, there’s nothing else we can do tonight. The Yard are on to a man who is said to have been a pal of Louise Rogers. A little light at that end would be helpful. Meanwhile I can confront Mary Stokes with these prints and ask her what about it. It may get us somewhere, or it may not. I think we ought to go over every inch of that clearing—shift all the leaves. Some job! But if Louise was murdered there, there may be traces.”
He drove back in the dark with the feeling that looking for a needle in a haystack was going to be a joke compared to what lay ahead of them.
It was when
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