and seen the scarf and the sweater, and had opened the door and closed it again.
Manciple asked him how he had come to get a scratch on the side of his neck.
‘Brambles when I was out with the search party,’ Stephen said, and he turned his head and pulled down his shirt collar so that they could see.
‘Or a woman’s fingernail,’ said Malm.
Stephen shrugged wearily. It was too ridiculous. They said no more about the scratch but talked about the car again. At five they told him that was enough for today and he could go home, they wouldn’t keep him any longer. If he didn’t mind waiting five minutes theywould take him home by car. Stephen said angrily that he did mind, he wouldn’t wait, he would walk home.
‘I’d keep off the moor, though, if I were you,’ said Malm. ‘If you insist on walking seven or eight miles when we’re perfectly willing to take you, you stick to the road. And give the moor a wide-berth for a bit, right?’
Standing by the desk, talking to the duty officer, was the girl from the
Three Towns Echo
who had interviewed Stephen in April. She looked very different, prettier, in her summer dress and pale blue cardigan. A chiffon scarf, blue, green and white, was tied round her head and knotted at the nape of her neck. She came up to him as he went towards the swing doors.
‘Is it you who’ve been all day helping police with their inquiries?’
Stephen attempted a light laugh. ‘Lord, yes, I suppose so.’
‘I’ve phoned it over to the PA.’
‘What might the PA be in plain language?’
She looked incredulous. ‘The Press Association. I thought everyone knew that. It’ll be in all the nationals, there’s been a man helping police with their inquiries into the moors murders.’
‘Not my name, though?’
She shook her head. They walked out into the street together. It was warm and sunny, the sky cloudless. ‘They have to be careful of libel,’ she said. ‘You might sue them.’
‘I certainly should!’
‘Would you mind telling me what they’ve been asking you?’
It was wonderful to be out in the fresh air again, the sunshine. It had felt like prison in there, or as if he could only be let out of that stuffy room into prison. Rememberingjargon he had read somewhere, he said joyfully, ‘I’ll give you an exclusive story!’
They had walked into Market Square. The Market Burger House was the obvious place to go for a cup of something and a biscuit, but Stephen felt he had had enough cups of something and enough biscuits to last him a lifetime. The Kelsey Arms was just opening. Feeling extremely daring, Stephen held the saloon bar door open for her.
There were two customers in there already, a man and a woman, no one else. Stephen fetched himself and the girl two halves of lager. She told him her name was Harriet Crozier. It pleased him that she remembered he was an expert on Vangmoor and that she seemed to have forgotten the trade by which he earned his living. She referred to him as a nature writer. On an impulse, a little breathlessly, he told her whose grandson he was.
‘Can I use that?’
‘Oh Lord, it might be better to say “descendant”.’ He was thinking of Uncle Stanley making a fuss. Uncle Stanley read the
Three Towns Echo
very thoroughly. There was often something in it about himself. ‘Say “descendant”, and you could say some of his — well, his talent’s been passed on to me, something like that.’ Stephen began telling her about the two occasions on which he had spoken to Ann Morgan, though he left out the bit about covering the settee, how social conscience had led him to join the search party.
Harriet took it all down in what she called speedwriting but which looked to Stephen like ordinary words with the vowels left out. She had drunk her lager very quickly, and suddenly, announcing that she was terribly hot, she couldn’t stand that thing on her head any longer, she couldn’t stand it whatever the risk, she pulled off her
Manciple asked him how he had come to get a scratch on the side of his neck.
‘Brambles when I was out with the search party,’ Stephen said, and he turned his head and pulled down his shirt collar so that they could see.
‘Or a woman’s fingernail,’ said Malm.
Stephen shrugged wearily. It was too ridiculous. They said no more about the scratch but talked about the car again. At five they told him that was enough for today and he could go home, they wouldn’t keep him any longer. If he didn’t mind waiting five minutes theywould take him home by car. Stephen said angrily that he did mind, he wouldn’t wait, he would walk home.
‘I’d keep off the moor, though, if I were you,’ said Malm. ‘If you insist on walking seven or eight miles when we’re perfectly willing to take you, you stick to the road. And give the moor a wide-berth for a bit, right?’
Standing by the desk, talking to the duty officer, was the girl from the
Three Towns Echo
who had interviewed Stephen in April. She looked very different, prettier, in her summer dress and pale blue cardigan. A chiffon scarf, blue, green and white, was tied round her head and knotted at the nape of her neck. She came up to him as he went towards the swing doors.
‘Is it you who’ve been all day helping police with their inquiries?’
Stephen attempted a light laugh. ‘Lord, yes, I suppose so.’
‘I’ve phoned it over to the PA.’
‘What might the PA be in plain language?’
She looked incredulous. ‘The Press Association. I thought everyone knew that. It’ll be in all the nationals, there’s been a man helping police with their inquiries into the moors murders.’
‘Not my name, though?’
She shook her head. They walked out into the street together. It was warm and sunny, the sky cloudless. ‘They have to be careful of libel,’ she said. ‘You might sue them.’
‘I certainly should!’
‘Would you mind telling me what they’ve been asking you?’
It was wonderful to be out in the fresh air again, the sunshine. It had felt like prison in there, or as if he could only be let out of that stuffy room into prison. Rememberingjargon he had read somewhere, he said joyfully, ‘I’ll give you an exclusive story!’
They had walked into Market Square. The Market Burger House was the obvious place to go for a cup of something and a biscuit, but Stephen felt he had had enough cups of something and enough biscuits to last him a lifetime. The Kelsey Arms was just opening. Feeling extremely daring, Stephen held the saloon bar door open for her.
There were two customers in there already, a man and a woman, no one else. Stephen fetched himself and the girl two halves of lager. She told him her name was Harriet Crozier. It pleased him that she remembered he was an expert on Vangmoor and that she seemed to have forgotten the trade by which he earned his living. She referred to him as a nature writer. On an impulse, a little breathlessly, he told her whose grandson he was.
‘Can I use that?’
‘Oh Lord, it might be better to say “descendant”.’ He was thinking of Uncle Stanley making a fuss. Uncle Stanley read the
Three Towns Echo
very thoroughly. There was often something in it about himself. ‘Say “descendant”, and you could say some of his — well, his talent’s been passed on to me, something like that.’ Stephen began telling her about the two occasions on which he had spoken to Ann Morgan, though he left out the bit about covering the settee, how social conscience had led him to join the search party.
Harriet took it all down in what she called speedwriting but which looked to Stephen like ordinary words with the vowels left out. She had drunk her lager very quickly, and suddenly, announcing that she was terribly hot, she couldn’t stand that thing on her head any longer, she couldn’t stand it whatever the risk, she pulled off her
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