Murder in the Afternoon by Frances Brody

column pedestal, the face of the dial simplicity itself. Armstrong wasn’t to know that I didn’t do the calculations personally. Some Persian chap worked out the sums centuries ago. All I had to do was find the correct pages in the appropriate books and re-draw the plan to scale. This set Mr Stonemason a challenge. He has to show how clever he is – and he is clever. He is working in blue slate, a material he has no experience of. He suspects I have chosen this so that he will fail and look a fool. He’s wrong of course, but that is what he thinks.’ The colonel pointed to the plan with the stem of his pipe. ‘Armstrong taps with his chisel, patiently, carefully, till he has all his straight edges and a smooth surface. Doing it all himself, not trusting the initial part of the work to a labourer or to his former apprentice. Precise movements, going gently so that the slate won’t notice it’s being transformed; won’t fight back and get the better of him. He has to coax it into shape. Because, like stone, slate has a life of its own. It can have some fissure you can’t see with the naked eye. It might crack while you’re carrying it to where you want it to be. Perhaps water seeped in thousands of years ago and left air pockets, so a man could chisel as carefully as he likes and he’ll hit one of these pockets. All his work will go for nothing as the stone fractures and shatters to pieces, and then …’
    The colonel took a sheet of paper from an envelope and handed it to me.
    The note was written in the meticulous copperplate hand that had become familiar to me as I sifted through the papers in Ethan Armstrong’s chest.
     
Sir,
    There is a small flaw in the slate which will mar its appearance. I can disguise it entirely by carving a flower, and would carve three additional flowers so as to make this pattern a harmonious whole. Will you call to give your approval to this alteration of the plan?
    Ethan Armstrong
     
    The note was entirely matter-of-fact without a polite salutation or a respectful close. I returned it to the table.
    ‘So you see,’ the colonel said, ‘I was meant to know that for the sake of symmetry he would improve on my plan. I, who go to the mines and quarries once a year if that, and rely on reports from my managers, am being asked to attend and inspect this perfect work that I should have insisted be carved on my property, and not in the quarry. No, Mrs Shackleton, I did not go to the quarry. I sent word for him to get on with the job and have it here first thing Monday morning. What happened after that? Well, your guess is as good as mine. Either he festered on my reply and brought his hammer down on the whole operation, or he wasn’t as clever as he thought and his concealment of flaw by flower did not work. The slate defeated him.’
    ‘Who brought the note from Mr Armstrong, and who took the message back?’
    ‘I don’t know who brought it.’
    He rang the bell. Once again, the butler appeared in an instant.
    ‘We’ve done with this.’
    ‘Very good, sir.’ The butler returned the blueprint and Ethan’s note to the folder, and tied the tape carefully.
    ‘And Rigby, who brought that note from Armstrong?’
    ‘One of the quarry labourers, sir. I couldn’t say more than that.’
    The butler waited, as if he expected to show me out.
    It was clear that my interview was at an end.
    ‘There is one other thing, if I may.’ I looked towards the butler, and back at the colonel.
    ‘Leave us, Rigby.’
    ‘Sir.’ The butler disappeared as quietly as he had come.
    ‘Harriet Armstrong went to the quarry on Saturday evening to take her father some food, and hoped to bring him home. She gives an account of seeing him lying in his hut. Dead. When a farm worker and then Mrs Armstrong went to see, he was not there. The sundial was smashed. Mr Armstrong has not been seen since. I thought it best to make a few preliminary enquiries before this becomes a murder investigation.’
    His mouth