The Corpse in the Cellar by Kel Richards

‘ever particularly friendly with your husband—or with you?’
    She understood the implication in my question and snapped out a sharp reply. ‘Certainly not! He was an odious man and we had nothing to do with him. Either of us.’
    In the awkward silence that followed we finished our tea and placed the cups and saucers back on the tray.
    Jack stood up and said, ‘We really should take up no more of your time, Mrs Proudfoot.’
    â€˜If you’re feeling fully recovered, that is?’ Warnie said.
    â€˜Yes, thank you. And thank you for bringing me inside. And for the tea.’
    The dismissal was clear, so we said our goodbyes and walked back out into the farmyard. We heard the front door close and lock behind us. Then we heard a bolt slide into place.
    Jack gestured at the door and said, ‘Clearly she has no intention of answering any more questions.’
    â€˜So what now?’ asked Warnie.
    â€˜Back to town, I think,’ Jack said.
    So we made our way back to the road and began to retrace our footsteps.
    We hadn’t gone far when we rounded a corner and saw, coming towards us, a puffed and red-faced Constable Dixon. He was wiping his forehead with a large white handkerchief and at first he didn’t see us. When he did, he gulped and stared saucer-eyed at us. Clearly he could no longer pretend not to be following us. This caused so much cogitation it was almost possible to hear the gearwheels spinning inside his head.
    â€˜Morning,’ he puffed as we drew level with him. Then he took off his helmet, scratched his head and said, ‘It’ll save me a lot of trouble if you gentlemen would be kind enough to tell where you’ve been and where you’re going now.’
    Warnie drew himself up to his full height and blew out his cheeks. ‘I’m not sure it’s any of your business, old chap.’
    â€˜Come on,’ said Jack sympathetically, ‘we don’t want to get our friendly local policeman into trouble with his superiors.’ Then he turned to Dixon and said, ‘We’ve been visiting the Proudfoot farm—trying to find out what caused the scene at the bank yesterday morning.’
    Constable Dixon pulled out his small notebook and pencil and dutifully wrote this down. ‘And where might you be going now, sir?’ he asked politely.
    â€˜Back to town,’ said Jack with a hearty laugh. ‘Come and walk with us, constable.’
    The policeman smiled and said, ‘With pleasure, sir. But not the way you came—that’s the long way. I’ll show you a shorter route.’
    â€˜Lead on, Constable Dixon—we’re in your hands!’

TWELVE

    As we started out I asked Constable Dixon how he managed to find us.
    â€˜I tracked you, sir,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose, ‘like a Red Indian in those James Fennimore Cooper books I used to read when I was a lad—footsteps in the damp soil, that sort of thing. Besides which, starting from the church there are not many roads out of town, so it wasn’t really all that hard. I just started in the general direction and looked for any little signs that you might have passed this way.’
    He paused to mop his brow again with his large white handkerchief and then complained, ‘It was not a nice thing that you gentlemen did back there—sneaking out of the vestry door of the church and giving me the slip.’
    â€˜Not a nice thing?’ grunted Warnie. ‘I like that.’ Then he turned to me and said, ‘The hide of the man: he treats us like criminals and then complains when we behave like the perfectly innocent gentlemen we are! Not nice indeed!’
    He huffed and puffed and harrumphed for the next minute or two but finally settled down. And Constable Dixon appeared to have decided that it was wise not to say any more on the subject.
    When we had walked a hundred yards further on, the policeman pointed to a side