The Theft of Magna Carta by John Creasey

here, sir.” He bent down again and Roger knelt beside him. “Do you see the scuff marks on the root of the tree just above the ground? They were almost certainly made by shoes with iron heel tips.”
    Such marks were there – obviously they were freshly made. Roger studied the ground nearby. It was dusty close to the tree but fairly damp on the edges, although wind and sun had dried the dirt road from the highway. It seemed clear that someone had been standing here, moving his feet; scuffing the ground. Roger stood up and Batten held out his right hand with three strands of linen: a green, a yellow, and a brown.
    â€œThe bark’s rough just here, sir,” he said. “If she was tied to it—” He broke off.
    â€œCan we identify the fabric?” asked Roger.
    â€œI can vouch for the colours,” Batten said, “and I think there’s an identical suit only a smaller size at a shop in town, sir, in Salisbury. It would be easy to check.”
    â€œYes,” Roger said. “How did you find the spot?”
    â€œA local estate agent going to Blandford and Dorchester saw a metallic blue Ford Capri coming off this track onto the main road yesterday, just after lunchtime. Two-thirty or so. He didn’t think anything of it until he got back today and heard what had happened. So we searched the area. Two or three people have certainly been moving about just here, and a car was definitely here yesterday afternoon. One or two damp patches of soil show the tyre marks. Firestone F.100. Haven’t found any other distinguishing marks, but photographs may reveal something.” Kempton rubbed his great jaw. “Not much doubt she was here, sir, so we’ll have to concentrate the search in this area. Of course, if she was taken away in the car she might be hundreds of miles away by now.”
    â€œYes.” Roger looked at Batten. “Better search the ground nearby. Can we rig up some floodlights?”
    â€œOh, yes, sir! The army will help out with those.” Batten gulped. “Do you expect to find a grave?”
    â€œAll I know is that we have to look for one,” Roger said gruffly.
    He left with Batten ten minutes afterward, with the precious linen strands in a small plastic envelope. Batten drove his own small Morris while Roger looked about the almost deserted fields and road with the sun behind them, bringing different and darker shades of green and brown. But he noticed very little, he was concentrating so hard on the problem.
    Had he gone wrong?
    They reached the police station before he realised how far they had travelled, and went to a small office which was assigned to Roger for the duration of the case. Batten went straight to the telephone while Roger unfastened a large brown envelope addressed to him. Inside were small cards, each filled out with remarkably fine handwriting which sloped slightly backward. On each was a name and address, and Roger began to look through them. He found what should have been the top card, which read:
    Â 
    Notes on known visitors to Leech’s preview of forthcoming sale at the Hart Hotel
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    â€œIs Mr. Murrow there?” asked Batten into the telephone. “Or Mrs. Murrow?”
    There were seventy-one cards, the assessment stated, and forty-five had been identified by Leech as trade visitors or local residents. He had identified Caldicott but not the Stephensons.
    â€œGood evening, Mrs. Murrow,” Roger heard. “I’m sorry to worry you. . . . Oh. Oh! I’m Tom Batten, of . . . Yes, that’s right, that Batten.”
    All of the local people were reputable, according to a note from Isherwood, who was keeping discreetly in the background most of the time. He had also telephoned the police nearest the houses of those who had come from outside Salisbury, and checked on twenty more. He confirmed Leech’s view; and he had got descriptions of six unidentified people and made out cards for