The Dartmoor Enigma by Basil Thomson Page B

only man in Duketon who was trusted with so portentous a secret.
    Richardson continued: “I want you to cast your memory back to the last evening when Mr. Dearborn had tea at this hotel. Do you, or any members of your staff, remember a stranger being at the hotel that day? It was the 29th September, a Saturday.”
    The manager shook his head several times before he spoke. “Saturday is one of our char-à-banc days and that means that the whole place is full of strangers, and as a rule there’s such a lot of them that you couldn’t expect my barmaid or anyone else to remember what any of them looked like.”
    â€œI was afraid that it might be so, but let me put another question to you. Do you remember whether any visitor to the hotel spoke to you about Mr. Dearborn?”
    The manager perked up. “I do remember an incident that happened this summer about two months ago, though it didn’t lead to anything. One of these hikers dressed in shorts—quite a boy, he was—stopped a night in the hotel. He was here just about the time when the char-à-banc turns up, and he was alone in the bar when the people began to come in. Then Mr. Dearborn drove up in his car and came in; the room was pretty full and I suppose it was that that kept him from ordering any refreshment. I remember this because I ran after him to tell him I’d serve him myself, but he wouldn’t stop, and as I came back from the door this young hiker boy called me and asked, ‘ Isn’t that Mr.—?’” The landlord scratched his head. “Lord, I’ve forgotten the name—it wasn’t a very common name. I said, ‘No, that’s Mr. Dearborn.’ He said, ‘I can’t be mistaken. If that isn’t Mr.’—whatever the name was—‘it’s his double. Where does he live?’ and I told him, Winterton.”
    â€œDid you tell him anything else about Mr. Dearborn?”
    â€œI think I told him he’d bought a quarry; there wasn’t much to tell him because I didn’t know much, nor did anyone else.”
    â€œDid the youth go off in the direction of Winterton?”
    â€œI’m sure I can’t tell you which way he went.”
    â€œWas there anything peculiar about the boy—anything to distinguish him by?”
    â€œNow you come to speak of it, there was. He was sandy-haired and he’d more freckles on his face than I’ve ever seen on anyone. I’ll bet he was called ‘Freckles’ at school.”
    â€œI don’t suppose you’ll have the luck to see him again this year, it’s getting late for hikers, but if you do I wish you’d ring up the Superintendent of police at Winterton.”
    â€œIs he a criminal?” asked the manager with brightening interest.
    â€œOh no, but I’d like to ask him a few questions. He may be an important witness in a case we have on hand. If by any chance you remember that name you forgot, you’ll be sure to let us know. Didn’t you make him register as he was stopping the night in the hotel?”
    â€œWell, sir, you know what it is, people coming in and out the whole day long. I can’t swear to it that he was made to register, especially as he was a hiker. I hope you’re not going to mention this to the Devon police and get me into trouble.”
    â€œNo,” said Richardson with a smile, “the Devon police must look after their own job.”
    Richardson had left Sergeant Jago in Winterton with instructions to see what happened to Pengelly during his absence. When he returned to the police station Jago came out to meet him.
    â€œPengelly’s still in the cells below,” he murmured. “When I asked the Superintendent what time he was going up to the quarry, he said he could do nothing until you came back, because you’d got the car.”
    â€œQuite right, but I’ll slip in and tell Mr. Carstairs that I shan’t